THE  LAST  HARVEST 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

BY 
JOHN  BURROUGHS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Clje  fttberstbc  Press  Cambntjgc 
1922 


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\JJ  p  ro  < 

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COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Cbt  »ibrrsiDr 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


But  who  is  he  with  modest  looks 
And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown? 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove; 

And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed; 

And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart  — 

The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 
WORDSWORTH 


PREFACE 

MOST  of  the  papers  garnered  here  were  written  after 
fourscore  years  —  after  the  heat  and  urge  of  the 
day  —  and  are  the  fruit  of  a  long  life  of  observation 
and  meditation. 

The  author's  abiding  interest  in  Emerson  is 
shown  in  his  close  and  eager  study  of  the  Journals 
during  these  later  years.  He  hungered  for  every 
thing  that  concerned  the  Concord  Sage,  who  had 
been  one  of  the  most  potent  influences  in  his  life. 
Although  he  could  discern  flies  in  the  Emersonian 
amber,  he  could  not  brook  slight  or  indifference 
toward  Emerson  in  the  youth  of  to-day.  Whatever 
flaws  he  himself  detected,  he  well  knew  that  Emer 
son  would  always  rest  secure  on  the  pedestal  where 
long  ago  he  placed  him.  Likewise  with  Thoreau: 
If  shortcomings  were  to  be  pointed  out  in  this  favor 
ite,  he  wished  to  be  the  one  to  do  it.  And  so,  before 
taking  Thoreau  to  task  for  certain  inaccuracies,  he 
takes  Lowell  to  task  for  criticizing  Thoreau.  He 
then  proceeds,  not  without  evident  satisfaction,  to 
call  attention  to  Thoreau's  "  slips"  as  an  observer 
and  reporter  of  nature;  yet  in  no  carping  spirit,  but, 
as  he  himself  has  said:  "Not  that  I  love  Thoreau 
less,  but  that  I  love  truth  more." 

The  "  Short  Studies  in  Contrasts,"  the  "  Day  by 
vii 


PREFACE 

Day"  notes,  "Gleanings,"  and  the  "Sundown 
Papers"  which  comprise  the  latter  part  of  this,  the 
last,  posthumous  volume  by  John  Burroughs,  were 
written  during  the  closing  months  of  his  life.  Con 
trary  to  his  custom,  he  wrote  these  usually  in  the 
evening,  or,  less  frequently,  in  the  early  morning 
hours,  when,  homesick  and  far  from  well,  with  the 
ceaseless  pounding  of  the  Pacific  in  his  ears,  and 
though  incapable  of  the  sustained  attention  neces 
sary  for  his  best  work,  he  was  nevertheless  impelled 
by  an  unwonted  mental  activity  to  seek  expression. 
If  the  reader  misses  here  some  of  the  charm  and 
power  of  his  usual  writing,  still  may  he  welcome 
this  glimpse  into  what  John  Burroughs  was  doing 
and  thinking  during  those  last  weeks  before  the  ill 
ness  came  which  forced  him  to  lay  aside  his  pen. 

CLARA  BARRUS 

WOODCHUCK  LODGE 
ROXBDRY-IN-THE-CATSKILLS 


CONTENTS 

I.  EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS  1 

II.  FLIES  IN  AMBER  86 

III.  ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU  103 

IV.  A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN  172 
V.  WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM?  201 

VI.  SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS:  218 

The  Transient  and  the  Permanent  218 

Positive  and  Negative  219 

Palm  and  Fist  220 

Praise  and  Flattery  221 

Genius  and  Talent  222 

Invention  and  Discovery  223 

Town  and  Country  226 

VII.  DAY  BY  DAY  230 

VIII.  GLEANINGS  250 

IX.  SUNDOWN  PAPERS:  264 

Re-reading  Bergson  264 

Revisions  266 

Bergson  and  Telepathy  267 

Meteoric  Men  and  Planetary  Men  270 

The  Daily  Papers  272 

The  Alphabet  275 

The  Reds  of  Literature  276 

ix 


CONTENTS 

IX.  SUNDOWN  PAPERS  (continued) 

The  Evolution  of  Evolution  279 

Following  One's  Bent  £80 

Notes  on  the  Psychology  of  Old  Age  281 

Facing  the  Mystery  285 

INDEX  289 


The  frontispiece  portrait  is  from  a  photograph 
by  Miss  Mabel  Watson  taken  at  Pasadena, 
California,  shortly  before  Mr.  Burroughs's  death 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 
i 

EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 


EMERSON'S  fame  as  a  writer  and  thinker  was 
firmly  established  during  his  lifetime  by  the  books 
he  gave  to  the  world.  His  Journals,  published 
over  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  his  death,  nearly 
or  quite  double  the  bulk  of  his  writing,  and  while 
they  do  not  rank  in  literary  worth  with  his  earlier 
works,  they  yet  throw  much  light  upon  his  life 
and  character  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me,  in  these 
dark  and  troublesome  times,1  and  near  the  sun 
down  of  my  life,  to  go  over  them  and  point  out  in 
some  detail  their  value  and  significance. 

Emerson  was  such  an  important  figure  in  our 
literary  history,  and  in  the  moral  and  religious 
development  of  our  people,  that  attention  cannot 
be  directed  to  him  too  often.     He  could  be  entirely 
reconstructed  from  the  unpublished  matter  which 
he  left.     Moreover,  just  to  come  in  contact  with 
him  in  times  like  ours  is  stimulating  and  refresh 
ing.    The  younger  generation  will  find  that  he 
1  Written  during  the  World  War.  —  C.  B. 
1 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

can  do  them  good  if  they  will  pause  long  enough 
in  their  mad  skirting  over  the  surface  of  things  to 
study  him. 

For  my  own  part,  a  lover  of  Emerson  from  early 
manhood,  I  come  back  to  him  in  my  old  age  with 
a  sad  but  genuine  interest.  I  do  not  hope  to  find 
the  Emerson  of  my  youth  —  the  man  of  daring 
and  inspiring  affirmation,  the  great  solvent  of  a 
world  of  encrusted  forms  and  traditions,  which  is 
so  welcome  to  a  young  man  —  because  I  am  no 
longer  a  young  man.  Emerson  is  the  spokesman 
and  prophet  of  youth  and  of  a  formative,  ideal 
istic  age.  His  is  a  voice  from  the  heights  which 
are  ever  bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  the  spirit.  I 
find  that  something  one  gets  from  Emerson  in 
early  life  does  not  leave  him  when  he  grows  old. 
It  is  a  habit  of  mind,  a  test  of  values,  a  strengthen 
ing  of  one's  faith  in  the  essential  soundness  and 
goodness  of  creation.  He  helps  to  make  you  feel 
at  home  in  nature,  and  in  your  own  land  and  gen 
eration.  He  permanently  exalts  your  idea  of  the 
mission  of  the  poet,  of  the  spiritual  value  of  the 
external  world,  of  the  universality  of  the  moral 
law,  and  of  our  kinship  with  the  whole  of  nature. 

There  is  never  any  despondency  or  infirmity  of 
faith  in  Emerson.  He  is  always  hopeful  and  cou 
rageous,  and  is  an  antidote  to  the  pessimism  and 
materialism  which  existing  times  tend  to  foster. 
Open  anywhere  in  the  Journals  or  in  the  Essays 

2 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

and  we  find  the  manly  and  heroic  note.  He  is  an 
unconquerable  optimist,  and  says  boldly,  "Noth 
ing  but  God  can  root  out  God,"  and  he  thinks 
that  in  time  our  culture  will  absorb  the  hells  also. 
He  counts  "the  dear  old  Devil"  among  the  good 
things  which  the  dear  old  world  holds  for  him.  He 
saw  so  clearly  how  good  comes  out  of  evil  and  is  in 
the  end  always  triumphant.  Were  he  living  in 
our  day,  he  would  doubtless  find  something  helpful 
and  encouraging  to  say  about  the  terrific  outburst 
of  scientific  barbarism  in  Europe. 

It  is  always  stimulating  to  hear  a  man  ask  such 
a  question  as  this,  even  though  he  essay  no  answer 
to  it :  "Is  the  world  (according  to  the  old  doubt) 
to  be  criticized  otherwise  than  as  the  best  possible 
in  the  existing  system,  and  the  population  of  the 
world  the  best  that  soils,  climate,  and  animals  per 
mit?" 

I  note  that  in  1837  Emerson  wrote  this  about 
the  Germans :  "I  do  not  draw  from  them  great  in 
fluence.  The  heroic,  the  holy,  I  lack.  They  are 
contemptuous.  They  fail  in  sympathy  with  hu 
manity.  The  voice  of  nature  they  bring  me  to 
hear  is  not  divine,  but  ghastly,  hard,  and  ironical. 
They  do  not  illuminate  me :  they  do  not  edify 
me."  Is  not  this  the  German  of  to-day  ?  If  Em 
erson  were  with  us  now  he  would  see,  as  we  all  see, 
how  the  age  of  idealism  and  spiritual  power  in 
Germany  that  gave  the  world  the  great  composers 
3 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

and  the  great  poets  and  philosophers  —  Bach, 
Beethoven,  Wagner,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Lessing, 
Kant,  Hegel,  and  others  —  has  passed  and  been 
succeeded  by  the  hard,  cruel,  and  sterile  age  of 
materialism,  and  the  domination  of  an  aggressive 
and  conscienceless  military  spirit.  Emerson  was 
the  poet  and  prophet  of  man's  moral  nature,  and 
it  is  this  nature  —  our  finest  and  highest  human 
sensibilities  and  aspirations  toward  justice  and 
truth  —  that  has  been  so  raided  and  trampled 
upon  by  the  chief  malefactor  and  world  outlaw  in 
the  present  war. 

II 

MEN  who  write  Journals  are  usually  men  of  cer 
tain  marked  traits  —  they  are  idealists,  they  love 
solitude  rather  than  society,  they  are  self-conscious, 
and  they  love  to  write.  At  least  this  seems  to  be 
true  of  the  men  of  the  past  century  who  left  Jour 
nals  of  permanent  literary  worth  —  Amiel,  Emerson, 
and  Thoreau.  Amiel's  Journal  has  more  the  char 
acter  of  a  diary  than  has  Emerson's  or  Thoreau's, 
though  it  is  also  a  record  of  thoughts  as  well  as  of 
days.  Emerson  left  more  unprinted  matter  than 
he  chose  to  publish  during  his  lifetime. 

The  Journals  of  Emerson  and  Thoreau  are 
largely  made  up  of  left-overs  from  their  published 
works,  and  hence  as  literary  material,  when  com 
pared  with  their  other  volumes,  are  of  secondary  im- 

4 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

portance.  You  could  not  make  another  "  Walden  " 
out  of  Thoreau's  Journals,  nor  build  up  another 
chapter  on  "Self -Reliance,"  or  on  "Character,"  or 
on  the  "Over-Soul,"  from  Emerson's,  though  there 
are  fragments  here  and  there  in  both  that  are  on  a 
level  with  their  best  work. 

Emerson  records  in  1835  that  his  brother  Charles 
wondered  that  he  did  not  become  sick  at  the  stom 
ach  over  his  poor  Journal :  "Yet  is  obdurate  habit 
callous  even  to  contempt.  I  must  scribble  on 
..."  Charles  evidently  was  not  a  born  scribbler 
like  his  brother.  He  was  clearly  more  fond  of 
real  life  and  of  the  society  of  his  fellows.  He  was 
an  orator  and  could  not  do  himself  justice  with 
the  pen.  Men  who  write  Journals,  as  I  have  said, 
are  usually  men  of  solitary  habits,  and  their  Journal 
largely  takes  the  place  of  social  converse.  Amiel, 
Emerson,  and  Thoreau  were  lonely  souls, 
lacking  in  social  gifts,  and  seeking  relief  in  the 
society  of  their  own  thoughts.  Such  men  go  to 
their  Journals  as  other  men  go  to  their  clubs. 
They  love  to  be  alone  with  themselves,  and  dread 
to  be  benumbed  or  drained  of  their  mental  force  by 
uncongenial  persons.  To  such  a  man  his  Journal 
becomes  his  duplicate  self  and  he  says  to  it  what  he 
could  not  say  to  his  nearest  friend.  It  becomes 
both  an  altar  and  a  confessional.  Especially  is  this 
true  of  deeply  religious  souls  such  as  the  men 
I  have  named.  They  commune,  through  their 

5 


THE   LAST   HARVEST 

Journals,  with  the  demons  that  attend  them. 
Amiel  begins  his  Journal  with  the  sentence,  "There 
is  but  one  thing  needful  —  to  possess  God,"  and 
Emerson's  Journal  in  its  most  characteristic  pages 
is  always  a  search  after  God,  or  the  highest  truth. 

"After  a  day  of  humiliation  and  stripes,"  he 
writes,  "if  I  can  write  it  down,  I  am  straightway 
relieved  and  can  sleep  well.  After  a  day  of  joy, 
the  beating  heart  is  calmed  again  by  the  diary. 
If  grace  is  given  me  by  all  angels  and  I  pray,  if 
then  I  can  catch  one  ejaculation  of  humility  or 
hope  and  set  it  down  in  syllables,  devotion  is  at  an 
end."  "I  write  my  journal,  I  deliver  my  lecture 
with  joy,"  but  "at  the  name  of  society  all  my  re 
pulsions  play,  all  my  quills  rise  and  sharpen." 

He  clearly  had  no  genius  for  social  intercourse. 
At  the  age  of  thirty  he  said  he  had  "  no  skill  to  live 
with  men ;  that  is,  such  men  as  the  world  is  made 
of;  and  such  as  I  delight  in  I  seldom  find."  Again 
he  says,  aged  thirty-two,  "I  study  the  art  of 
solitude ;  I  yield  me  as  gracefully  as  I  can  to  des 
tiny,"  and  adds  that  it  is  "from  eternity  a  settled 
thing"  that  he  and  society  shall  be  "nothing  to 
each  other."  He  takes  to  his  Journal  instead.  It 
is  his  house  of  refuge. 

Yet  he  constantly  laments  how  isolated  he  is, 
mainly  by  reason  of  the  poverty  of  his  nature,  his 
want  of  social  talent,  of  animal  heat,  and  of  sym 
pathy  with  the  commonplace  and  the  humdrum. 

6 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

"  I  have  no  animal  spirits,  therefore  when  surprised 
by  company  and  kept  in  a  chair  for  many  hours, 
my  heart  sinks,  my  brow  is  clouded,  and  I  think  I 
will  run  for  Acton  woods  and  live  with  the  squir 
rels  henceforth."  But  he  does  not  run  away;  he 
often  takes  it  out  in  hoeing  in  his  garden :  "  My 
good  hoe  as  it  bites  the  ground  revenges  my  wrongs, 
and  I  have  less  lust  to  bite  my  enemies."  "In 
smoothing  the  rough  hillocks  I  smooth  my  temper. 
In  a  short  time  I  can  hear  the  bobolinks  sing  and  see 
the  blessed  deluge  of  light  and  color  that  rolls 
around  me."  Somewhere  he  has  said  that  the 
writer  should  not  dig,  and  yet  again  and  again  we 
find  him  resorting  to  hoe  or  spade  to  help  him 
sleep,  as  well  as  to  smooth  his  temper :  "Yesterday 
afternoon,  I  stirred  the  earth  about  my  shrubs  and 
trees  and  quarrelled  with  the  piper-grass,  and  now 
I  have  slept,  and  no  longer  am  morose  nor  feel 
twitchings  in  the  muscles  of  my  face  when  a  vis 
itor  is  by."  We  welcome  these  and  many  another 
bit  of  self -analysis  :  "I  was  born  with  a  seeing  eye 
and  not  a  helping  hand.  I  can  only  comfort  my 
friends  by  thought,  and  not  by  love  or  aid."  "I 
was  made  a  hermit  and  am  content  with  my  lot. 
I  pluck  golden  fruit  from  rare  meetings  with  wise 
men."  Margaret  Fuller  told  him  he  seemed  al 
ways  on  stilts:  "It  is  even  so.  Most  of  the  per 
sons  whom  I  see  in  my  own  house  I  see  across  a 
gulf.  I  cannot  go  to  them  nor  they  come  to  me. 

7 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  frigidity  and  labor  of  my 
speech  with  such.  You  might  turn  a  yoke  of  oxen 
between  every  pair  of  words ;  and  the  behavior  is 
as  awkward  and  proud." 

"I  would  have  my  book  read  as  I  have  read  my 
favorite  books,  not  with  explosion  and  astonish 
ment,  a  marvel  and  a  rocket,  but  a  friendly  and 
agreeable  influence  stealing  like  a  scent  of  a  flower, 
or  the  sight  of  a  new  landscape  on  a  traveller.  I 
neither  wish  to  be  hated  and  defied  by  such  as  I 
startle,  nor  to  be  kissed  and  hugged  by  the  young 
whose  thoughts  I  stimulate." 

Here  Emerson  did  center  in  himself  and  never 
apologized.  His  gospel  of  self-reliance  came  nat 
ural  to  him.  He  was  emphatically  self,  without 
a  trace  of  selfishness.  He  went  abroad  to  study 
himself  more  than  other  people  —  to  note  the  ef 
fect  of  Europe  on  himself.  He  says,  "I  believe 
it's  sound  philosophy  that  wherever  we  go,  what 
ever  we  do,  self  is  the  sole  object  we  study  and 
learn.  Montaigne  said  himself  was  all  he  knew. 
Myself  is  much  more  than  I  know,  and  yet  I  know 
nothing  else."  In  Paris  he  wrote  to  his  brother 
William,  "A  lecture  at  the  Sorbonne  is  far  less 
useful  to  me  than  a  lecture  that  I  write  myself"; 
and  as  for  the  literary  society  in  Paris,  though  he 
thought  longingly  of  it,  yet  he  said,  "Probably  in 
years  it  would  avail  me  nothing." 

8 


EMERSON   AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

The  Journals  are  mainly  a  record  of  his  thoughts 
and  not  of  his  days,  except  so  far  as  the  days 
brought  him  ideas.  Here  and  there  the  personal 
element  creeps  in  —  some  journey,  some  bit  of 
experience,  some  visitor,  or  walks  with  Channing, 
Hawthorne,  Thoreau,  Jones  Very,  and  others; 
some  lecturing  experience,  his  class  meetings,  his 
travels  abroad  and  chance  meetings  with  distin 
guished  men.  But  all  the  more  purely  personal 
element  makes  up  but  a  small  portion  of  the  ten 
thick  volumes  of  his  Journal.  Most  readers,  I 
fancy,  will  wish  that  the  proportion  of  these  things 
were  greater.  We  all  have  thoughts  and  specula 
tions  of  our  own,  but  we  can  never  hear  too  much 
about  a  man's  real  life. 

Emerson  stands  apart  from  the  other  poets  and 
essayists  of  New  England,  and  of  English  literature 
generally,  as  of  another  order.  He  is  a  reversion 
to  an  earlier  type,  the  type  of  the  bard,  the  skald, 
the  poet-seer.  He  is  the  poet  and  prophet  of  the 
moral  ideal.  His  main  significance  is  religious, 
though  nothing  could  be  farther  from  him  than 
creeds  and  doctrines,  and  the  whole  ecclesiastical 
formalism.  There  is  an  atmosphere  of  sanctity 
about  him  that  we  do  not  feel  about  any  other  poet 
and  essayist  of  his  time.  His  poems  are  the  fruit 
of  Oriental  mysticism  and  bardic  fervor  grafted 
upon  the  shrewd,  parsimonious,  New  England 
puritanic  stock.  The  stress  and  wild,  uncertain 
9 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

melody  of  his  poetry  is  like  that  of  the  wind-harp. 
No  writing  surpasses  his  in  the  extent  to  which 
it  takes  hold  of  the  concrete,  the  real,  the  familiar, 
and  none  surpasses  his  in  its  elusive,  mystical 
suggestiveness,  and  its  cryptic  character.  It  is 
Yankee  wit  and  shrewdness  on  one  side,  and  Ori 
ental  devoutness,  pantheism,  and  symbolism  on  the 
other.  Its  cheerful  and  sunny  light  of  the  common 
day  enhances  instead  of  obscures  the  light  that 
falls  from  the  highest  heaven  of  the  spirit.  Saadi  or 
Hafiz  or  Omar  might  have  fathered  him,  but  only 
a  New  England  mother  could  have  borne  him. 
Probably  more  than  half  his  poetry  escapes  the 
average  reader;  his  longer  poems,  like  "Initial, 
Daemonic,  and  Celestial  Love,"  "Monadnoc," 
"Merlin,"  "The  Sphinx,"  "The  World-Soul," 
set  the  mind  groping  for  the  invisible  rays  of  the 
spectrum  of  human  thought  and  knowledge,  but 
many  of  the  shorter  poems,  such  as  "The  Problem," 
"Each  and  All,"  "Sea-Shore,"  "The  Snow- 
Storm,"  "Musketaquid,"  "Days,"  "Song  of  Na 
ture,"  "My  Garden,"  "Boston  Hymn,"  "Con 
cord  Hymn,"  and  others,  are  among  the  most 
precious  things  in  our  literature. 

As  Emerson  was  a  bard  among  poets,  a  seer 
among  philosophers,  a  prophet  among  essayists, 
an  oracle  among  ethical  teachers,  so,  as  I  have  said, 
was  he  a  solitary  among  men.  He  walked  alone. 
He  somewhere  refers  to  his  "porcupine  impossi- 
10 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

bility  of  contact  with  men."  His  very  thoughts 
are  not  social  among  themselves,  they  separate. 
Each  stands  alone ;  often  they  hardly  have  a  bow 
ing  acquaintance;  over  and  over  their  juxtaposi 
tion  is  mechanical  and  not  vital.  The  redeeming 
feature  is  that  they  can  afford  to  stand  alone,  like 
shafts  of  marble  or  granite. 

The  force  and  worth  of  his  page  is  not  in  its  log 
ical  texture,  but  in  the  beauty  and  truth  of  its  iso 
lated  sentences  and  paragraphs.  There  is  little 
inductive  or  deductive  reasoning  in  his  books, 
but  a  series  of  affirmations  whose  premises  and 
logical  connection  the  reader  does  not  always  see. 

He  records  that  his  hearers  found  his  lectures 
fine  and  poetical  but  a  little  puzzling.  "One 
thought  them  as  good  as  a  kaleidoscope."  The 
solid  men  of  business  said  that  they  did  not  under 
stand  them  but  their  daughters  did. 

The  lecture  committee  in  Illinois  in  1856  told 
him  that  the  people  wanted  a  hearty  laugh.  "The 
stout  Illinoian,"  not  finding  the  laugh,  "after  a 
short  trial  walks  out  of  the  hall."  I  think  even 
his  best  Eastern  audiences  were  always  a  good  deal 
puzzled.  The  lecturer  never  tried  to  meet  them 
halfway.  He  says  himself  of  one  of  his  lectures, 
"I  found  when  I  had  finished  my  new  lecture  that 
it  was  a  very  good  house,  only  the  architect  had 
unfortunately  omitted  the  stairs."  The  absence 
of  the  stairs  in  his  house  —  of  an  easy  entrance 
11 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

into  the  heart  of  the  subject,  and  of  a  few  consecu 
tive  and  leading  ideas  —  will,  in  a  measure,  account 
for  the  bewilderment  of  his  hearers.  When  I 
heard  Emerson  in  1871  before  audiences  in  Bal 
timore  and  Washington,  I  could  see  and  feel  this 
uncertainty  and  bewilderment  in  his  auditors. 

His  lectures  could  not  be  briefly  summarized. 
They  had  no  central  thought.  You  could  give  a 
sample  sentence,  but  not  the  one  sentence  that 
commanded  all  the  others.  Whatever  he  called 
it,  his  theme,  as  he  himself  confesses,  was  always 
fundamentally  the  same:  "In  all  my  lectures  I 
have  taught  one  doctrine,  namely,  the  infinitude 
of  the  private  man.  This  the  people  accept  readily 
enough  and  even  with  loud  commendations  as 
long  as  I  call  the  lecture  Art  or  Politics,  or  Litera 
ture,  or  the  Household,  but  the  moment  I  call  it 
Religion  they  are  shocked,  though  it  be  only  the 
application  of  the  same  truth  which  they  receive 
everywhere  else  to  a  new  class  of  facts." 

Emerson's  supreme  test  of  a  man,  after  all  other 
points  had  been  considered,  was  the  religious  test : 
Was  he  truly  religious?  Was  his  pole  star  the 
moral  law?  Was  the  sense  of  the  Infinite  ever 
with  him?  But  few  contemporary  authors  met 
his  requirements  in  this  respect.  After  his  first 
visit  abroad,  when  he  saw  Carlyle,  Landor,  Col 
eridge,  Wordsworth,  and  others,  he  said  they  were 
all  second-  or  third-rate  men  because  of  their  want 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

of  the  religious  sense.  They  all  looked  backward 
to  a  religion  of  other  ages,  and  had  no  faith  in  a 
present  revelation. 

His  conception  of  the  divine  will  as  the  eternal 
tendency  to  the  good  of  the  whole,  active  in  every  atom, 
every  moment,  is  one  of  the  thoughts  in  which  re 
ligion  and  science  meet  and  join  hands. 

Ill 

IN  Emerson's  Journal  one  sees  the  Emersonian 
worlds  in  their  making  —  the  essays,  the  addresses, 
the  poems.  Here  are  the  nebulae  and  star-dust 
out  of  which  most  of  them  came,  or  in  which  their 
suggestion  lies.  Now  and  then  there  is  quite  as 
good  stuff  as  is  found  in  his  printed  volumes,  pages 
and  paragraphs  from  the  same  high  heaven  of  aes 
thetic  emotion.  The  poetic  fragments  and  wholes 
are  less  promising,  I  think,  than  the  prose;  they 
are  evidently  more  experimental,  and  show  the 
'prentice  hand  more. 

The  themes  around  which  his  mind  revolved  all 
his  life  —  nature,  God,  the  soul  —  and  their  end 
less  variations  and  implications,  recur  again  and 
again  in  each  of  the  ten  printed  volumes  of  the 
Journals.  He  has  new  thoughts  on  Character, 
Self-Reliance,  Heroism,  Manners,  Experience,  Na 
ture,  Immortality,  and  scores  of  other  related 
subjects  every  day,  and  he  presents  them  in  new 
connections  and  with  new  images.  His  mind  had 
13 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

marked  centrality,  and  fundamental  problems 
were  always  near  at  hand  with  him.  He  could 
not  get  away  from  them.  He  renounced  the  pul 
pit  and  the  creeds,  not  because  religion  meant  less 
to  him,  but  because  it  meant  more.  The  religious 
sentiment,  the  feeling  of  the  Infinite,  was  as  the 
sky  over  his  head,  and  the  earth  under  his  feet. 

The  whole  stream  of  Emerson's  mental  life  ap 
parently  flowed  through  his  Journals.  They  were 
the  repository  of  all  his  thoughts,  all  his  specula 
tions,  all  his  mental  and  spiritual  experiences. 
What  a  melange  they  are !  Wise  sayings  from  his 
wide  reading,  from  intercourse  with  men,  private 
and  public,  sayings  from  his  farmer  neighbors, 
anecdotes,  accounts  of  his  travels,  or  his  walks, 
solitary  or  in  the  company  of  Channing,  Haw 
thorne,  or  Thoreau,  his  gropings  after  spiritual 
truths,  and  a  hundred  other  things,  are  always 
marked  by  what  he  says  that  Macaulay  did  not 
possess  —  elevation  of  mind  —  and  an  abiding 
love  for  the  real  values  in  life  and  letters. 

Here  is  the  prose  origin  of  "Days"  :  "The  days 
come  and  go  like  muffled  and  veiled  figures  sent 
from  a  distant  friendly  party,  but  they  say  nothing, 
and  if  we  do  not  use  the  gifts  they  bring,  they  carry 
them  as  silently  away."  In  this  brief  May  entry 
we  probably  see  the  inception  of  the  "Humble-Bee" 
poem:  "Yesterday  in  the  woods  I  followed  the 
fine  humble  bee  with  rhymes  and  fancies  free." 

14 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

Now  and  then  we  come  upon  the  germ  of  other 
poems  in  his  prose.  Here  is  a  hint  of  "Each  and 
All"  in  a  page  written  at  the  age  of  thirty-one: 
"The  shepherd  or  the  beggar  in  his  red  cloak  little 
knows  what  a  charm  he  gives  to  the  wide  landscape 
that  charms  you  on  the  mountain-top  and  whereof 
he  makes  the  most  agreeable  feature,  and  I  no 
more  the  part  my  individuality  plays  in  the  All." 
The  poem,  his  reader  will  remember,  begins  in  this 
wise: 

"Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down." 

In  a  prose  sentence  written  in  1835  he  says: 
"Nothing  is  beautiful  alone.  Nothing  but  is 
beautiful  in  the  whole."  In  the  poem  above 
referred  to  this  becomes  : 

"All  are  needed  by  each  one; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone." 

In  1856  we  find  the  first  stanza  of  his  beautiful 
"Two  Rivers,"  written  in  prose  form:  "Thy 
voice  is  sweet,  Musketaquid ;  repeats  the  music 
of  the  rain ;  but  sweeter  rivers  silent  flit  through 
thee  as  those  through  Concord  plain."  The  sub 
stance  of  the  next  four  stanzas  is  in  prose  form  also  : 
"Thou  art  shut  in  thy  banks ;  but  the  stream  I  love, 
flows  in  thy  water,  and  flows  through  rocks  and 
through  the  air,  and  through  darkness,  and  through 
men,  and  women.  I  hear  and  see  the  inundation 
and  eternal  spending  of  the  stream,  in  winter  and 
15 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

in  summer,  in  men  and  animals,  in  passion  and 
thought.  Happy  are  they  who  can  hear  it";  and 
so  on.  In  the  poem  these  sentences  become : 

"  Thou  in  thy  narrow  banks  are  pent : 
The  stream  I  love  unbounded  goes 
Through  flood  and  sea  and  firmament; 
Through  light,  through  life,  it  forward  flows. 

"  I  see  the  inundation  sweet, 
I  hear  the  spending  of  the  stream 
Through  years,  through  men,  through  Nature  fleet, 
Through  love  and  thought,  through  power  and  dream." 

It  is  evident  that  Emerson  was  a  severe  critic 
of  his  own  work.  He  knew  when  he  had  struck 
fire,  and  he  knew  when  he  had  failed.  He  was  as 
exacting  with  himself  as  with  others.  His  con 
ception  of  the  character  and  function  of  the  poet 
was  so  high  that  he  found  the  greatest  poets  want 
ing.  The  poet  is  one  of  his  three  or  four  ever- 
recurring  themes.  He  is  the  divine  man.  He  is 
bard  and  prophet,  seer  and  savior.  He  is  the  acme 
of  human  attainment.  Verse  devoid  of  insight 
into  the  method  of  nature,  and  devoid  of  religious 
emotion,  was  to  him  but  as  sounding  brass  and 
tinkling  cymbal.  He  called  Poe  "the  jingle  man" 
because  he  was  a  mere  conjurer  with  words.  The 
intellectual  content  of  Poe's  works  was  negligible. 
He  was  a  wizard  with  words  and  measures,  but  a 
pauper  in  ideas.  He  did  not  add  to  our  knowl 
edge,  he  did  not  add  to  our  love  of  anything  in 
nature  or  in  life,  he  did  not  contribute  to  our  con- 
16 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

tentment  in  the  world  —  the  bread  of  life  was  not 
in  him.  What  was  in  him  was  mastery  over  the 
architectonics  of  verse.  Emerson  saw  little  in 
Shelley  for  the  same  reason,  but  much  in  Herbert 
and  Donne.  Religion,  in  his  sense  of  the  term,  — 
the  deep  sea  into  which  the  streams  of  all  human 
thought  empty,  —  was  his  final  test  of  any  man. 
Unless  there  was  something  fundamental  about 
him,  something  that  savored  of  the  primordial 
deep  of  the  universal  spirit,  he  remained  unmoved. 
The  elemental  azure  of  the  great  bodies  of  water 
is  suggestive  of  the  tone  and  hue  Emerson  de 
manded  in  great  poetry.  He  found  but  little  of 
it  in  the  men  of  his  time :  practically  none  in  the 
contemporary  poets  of  New  England.  It  was  prob 
ably  something  of  this  pristine  quality  that  ar 
rested  Emerson's  attention  in  Walt  Whitman's 
"Leaves  of  Grass."  He  saw  in  it  "the  Appala 
chian  enlargement  of  outline  and  treatment  for 
service  to  American  literature." 

Emerson  said  of  himself  :  "I  am  a  natural  reader, 
and  only  a  writer  in  the  absence  of  natural  writers. 
In  a  true  time  I  should  never  have  written."  We 
must  set  this  statement  down  to  one  of  those  fits 
of  dissatisfaction  with  himself,  those  negative  moods 
that  often  came  upon  him.  What  he  meant 
by  a  true  time  is  very  obscure.  In  an  earlier  age 
he  would  doubtless  have  remained  a  preacher,  like 
his  father  and  grandfather,  but  coming  under  the 
17 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

influence  of  Goethe,  Carlyle,  and  Wordsworth, 
and  other  liberating  influences  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  he  was  bound  to  be  a  writer.  When  he 
was  but  twenty-one  he  speaks  of  his  immoderate 
fondness  for  writing.  Writing  was  the  passion  of  his 
life,  his  supreme  joy,  and  he  went  through  the 
world  with  the  writer's  eye  and  ear  and  hand  al 
ways  on  duty.  And  his  contribution  to  the  liter 
ature  of  man's  higher  moral  and  aesthetic  nature 
is  one  of  the  most  valuable  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived. 

IV 

APART  from  the  account  of  his  travels  and  other 
personal  experiences,  the  Journals  are  mainly  made 
up  of  discussions  of  upwards  of  fifty  subjects  of 
general  and  fundamental  interest,  ranging  from  art 
to  war,  and  looked  at  from  many  and  diverse  points 
of  view.  Of  these  subjects  three  are  dominant, 
recurring  again  and  again  in  each  volume.  These 
are  nature,  literature,  and  religion.  Emerson's 
main  interests  centered  in  these  themes.  Using 
these  terms  in  their  broadest  sense,  this  is  true,  I 
think,  of  all  his  published  books.  Emerson  was 
an  idealist,  first,  last,  and  all  the  time,  and  he  was 
a  literary  artist,  or  aimed  to  be,  first,  last,  and  all 
the  time,  and  in  the  same  measure  and  to  the  same 
extent  was  he  a  devout  religious  soul,  using  the 
term  religion  as  he  sometimes  uses  it,  as  a  feeling 
of  the  Infinite. 

18 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

There  are  one  hundred  and  seventy-six  para 
graphs,  long  and  short,  given  to  literature  and  art, 
and  one  hundred  and  sixty  given  to  religious  sub 
jects,  and  over  thirty  given  to  nature.  It  is  in 
teresting  to  note  that  he  devotes  more  paragraphs 
to  woman  than  to  man ;  and  more  to  society  than 
to  solitude,  though  only  to  express  his  dislike  of 
the  former  and  his  love  for  the  latter.  There  are 
more  thoughts  about  science  than  about  metaphys 
ics,  more  about  war  than  about  love,  more  about 
poetry  than  about  philosophy,  more  on  beauty 
than  on  knowledge,  more  on  walking  than  on  books. 
There  are  three  times  as  many  paragraphs  on  na 
ture  (thirty-three)  as  on  the  Bible,  all  of  which  is 
significant  of  his  attitude  of  mind. 

Emerson  was  a  preacher  without  a  creed,  a  scholar 
devoted  to  super-literary  ends,  an  essayist  oc 
cupied  with  thoughts  of  God,  the  soul,  nature,  the 
moral  law  —  always  the  literary  artist  looking  for 
the  right  word,  the  right  image,  but  always  bend 
ing  his  art  to  the  service  of  religious  thought.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  religious  souls  of  his  country 
and  time,  or  of  any  country  and  time,  yet  was  dis 
owned  by  all  the  sects  and  churches  of  his  time. 
He  made  religion  too  pervasive,  and  too  inclusive 
to  suit  them ;  the  stream  at  once  got  out  of  its 
banks  and  inundated  all  their  old  landmarks.  In 
the  last  analysis  of  his  thought,  his  ultimate  theme 
was  God,  and  yet  he  never  allowed  himself  to  at- 
19 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

tempt  any  definite  statement  about  God  —  refus 
ing  always  to  discuss  God  in  terms  of  human  per 
sonality.  When  Emerson  wrote  "Representative 
Men"  he  felt  that  Jesus  was  the  Representative 
Man  whom  he  ought  to  sketch,  "but  the  task  re 
quired  great  gifts  —  steadiest  insight  and  perfect 
temper ;  else  the  consciousness  of  want  of  sympa 
thy  in  the  audience  would  make  one  petulant  and 
sore  in  spite  of  himself." 

There  are  few  great  men  in  history  or  philosophy 
or  literature  or  poetry  or  divinity  whose  names  do 
not  appear  more  or  less  frequently  in  the  Journals. 
For  instance,  in  the  Journal  of  1864  the  names  or 
works  of  one  hundred  and  seventeen  men  appear, 
ranging  from  Zeno  to  Jones  Very.  And  this  is  a 
fair  average.  Of  course  the  names  of  his  friends 
and  contemporaries  appear  the  most  frequently. 
The  name  that  recurs  the  most  often  is  that  of  his 
friend  and  neighbor  Thoreau.  There  are  ninety- 
seven  paragraphs  in  which  the  Hermit  of  Wai- 
den  is  the  main  or  the  secondary  figure.  He  dis 
cusses  him  and  criticizes  him,  and  quotes  from 
him,  always  showing  an  abiding  interest  in,  and 
affection  for,  him.  Thoreau  was  in  so  many  ways 
so  characteristically  Emersonian  that  one  wonders 
what  influence  it  was  in  the  place  or  time  that  gave 
them  both,  with  their  disparity  of  ages,  so  nearly 
the  same  stamp.  Emerson  is  by  far  the  more 
imposing  figure,  the  broader,  the  wiser,  the  more 
20 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

tolerant,  the  more  representative;  he  stood  four 
square  to  the  world  in  a  sense  that  Thoreau  did 
not.  Thoreau  presented  a  pretty  thin  edge  to  the 
world.  If  he  stood  broadside  to  anything,  it  was 
to  nature.  He  was  undoubtedly  deeply  and  per 
manently  influenced  by  Emerson  both  in  his  men 
tal  habits  and  in  his  manner  of  life,  yet  the  main 
part  of  him  was  original  and  unadulterated  Tho 
reau.  His  literary  style  is  in  many  respects  better 
than  that  of  Emerson  ;  its  logical  texture  is  better ; 
it  has  more  continuity,  more  evolution,  it  is  more 
flexible  and  adaptive ;  it  is  the  medium  of  a  lesser 
mind,  but  of  a  mind  more  thoroughly  imbued  with 
the  influence  of  the  classical  standards  of  modern 
literature.  I  believe  "Walden"  will  last  as  long 
as  anything  Emerson  has  written,  if  not  longer. 
It  is  the  fruit  of  a  sweeter  solitude  and  detachment 
from  the  world  than  Emerson  ever  knew,  a  private 
view  of  nature,  and  has  a  fireside  and  campside 
quality  that  essays  fashioned  for  the  lecture  plat 
form  do  not  have.  Emerson's  pages  are  more  like 
mosaics,  richly  inlaid  with  gems  of  thought  and 
poetry  and  philosophy,  while  Thoreau's  are  more 
like  a  closely  woven,  many-colored  textile. 

Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods"  I  look  upon  as  one 
of  the  best  books  of  the  kind  in  English  literature. 
It  has  just  the  right  tone  and  quality,  like  Dana's 
"Two  Years  Before  the  Mast'*  —  a  tone  and  qual 
ity  that  sometimes  come  to  a  man  when  he  makes 
21 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

less  effort  to  write  than  to  see  and  feel  truly.  He 
does  not  aim  to  exploit  the  woods,  but  to  live 
with  them  and  possess  himself  of  their  spirit.  The 
Cape  Cod  book  also  has  a  similar  merit ;  it  almost 
leaves  a  taste  of  the  salt  sea  spray  upon  your  lips. 
Emerson  criticizes  Thoreau  freely,  and  justly,  I 
think.  As  a  person  he  lacked  sweetness  and  win- 
someness ;  as  a  writer  he  was  at  times  given  to  a 
meaningless  exaggeration. 

Henry  Thoreau  sends  me  a  paper  with  the  old  fault 
of  unlimited  contradiction.  The  trick  of  his  rhetoric 
is  soon  learned :  it  consists  in  substituting  for  the  ob 
vious  word  and  thought  its  diametrical  antagonist. 
He  praises  wild  mountains  and  winter  forests  for  their 
domestic  air ;  snow  and  ice  for  their  warmth  ;  villagers 
and  wood-choppers  for  their  urbanity,  and  the  wilder 
ness  for  resembling  Rome  and  Paris.  With  the  con 
stant  inclination  to  dispraise  cities  and  civilization,  he 
yet  can  find  no  way  to  know  woods  and  woodmen  ex 
cept  by  paralleling  them  with  towns  and  townsmen. 
Channing  declared  the  piece  is  excellent :  but  it  makes 
me  nervous  and  wretched  to  read  it,  with  all  its  merits. 

I  told  Henry  Thoreau  that  his  freedom  is  in  the  form, 
but  he  does  not  disclose  new  matter.  I  am  very  fa 
miliar  with  all  his  thoughts,  —  they  are  my  own  quite 
originally  drest.  But  if  the  question  be,  what  new 
ideas  has  he  thrown  into  circulation,  he  has  not  yet 
told  what  that  is  which  he  was  created  to  say.  I  said 
to  him  what  I  often  feel,  I  only  know  three  persons 
who  seem  to  me  fully  to  see  this  law  of  reciprocity  or 
compensation  —  himself,  Alcott,  and  myself  :  and  *t  is 
odd  that  we  should  all  be  neighbors,  for  in  the  wide 
land  or  the  wide  earth  I  do  not  know  another  who 

22 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

seems  to  have  it  as  deeply  and  originally  as  these  three 
Gothamites. 

A  remark  of  Emerson's  upon  Thoreau  calls  up 
the  image  of  John  Muir  to  me:  "If  I  knew  only 
Thoreau,  I  should  think  cooperation  of  good  men 
impossible.  Must  we  always  talk  for  victory,  and 
never  once  for  truth,  for  comfort,  and  joy  ?  "  Then, 
after  crediting  Thoreau  with  some  admirable  gifts, 
—  centrality,  penetration,  strong  understanding,  — 
he  proceeds  to  say,  "all  his  resources  of  wit  and 
invention  are  lost  to  me,  in  every  experiment, 
year  after  year,  that  I  make  to  hold  intercourse 
with  his  mind.  Always  some  weary  captious 
paradox  to  fight  you  with,  and  the  time  and  tem 
per  wasted." 

Emerson  met  John  Muir  in  the  Yosemite  in 
1871  and  was  evidently  impressed  with  him. 
Somewhere  he  gives  a  list  of  his  men  which  begins 
with  Carlyle  and  ends  with  Muir.  Here  was  an 
other  man  with  more  character  than  intellect,  as 
Emerson  said  of  Carlyle,  and  with  the  flavor  of 
the  wild  about  him.  Muir  was  not  too  compliant 
and  deferential.  He  belonged  to  the  sayers  of 
No.  Contradiction  was  the  breath  of  his  nostrils. 
He  had  the  Scottish  chariness  of  bestowing  praise 
or  approval,  and  could  surely  give  Emerson  the 
sense  of  being  met  which  he  demanded.  Writing 
was  irksome  to  Muir  as  it  was  to  Carlyle,  but  in 
monologue,  in  an  attentive  company,  he  shone; 
23 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

not  a  great  thinker,  but  a  mind  strongly  character 
istic.  His  philosophy  rarely  rose  above  that  of 
the  Sunday  school,  but  his  moral  fiber  was  very 
strong,  and  his  wit  ready  and  keen.  In  conversa 
tion  and  in  daily  intercourse  he  was  a  man  not 
easily  put  aside.  Emerson  found  him  deeply  read 
in  nature  lore  and  with  some  suggestion  about  his 
look  and  manner  of  the  wild  and  rugged  solitude 
in  which  he  lived  so  much. 

Emerson  was  alive  to  everything  around  him ; 
every  object  touched  some  spring  in  his  mind ; 
the  church  spire,  the  shadows  on  the  windows  at 
night,  the  little  girl  with  her  pail  of  whortleberries, 
the  passing  bee,  bird,  butterfly,  the  clouds,  the 
streams,  the  trees  —  all  found  his  mind  open  to 
any  suggestion  they  might  make.  He  is  intent  on 
the  now  and  the  here.  He  listens  to  every  new 
comer  with  an  expectant  air.  He  is  full  of  the 
present.  I  once  saw  him  at  West  Point  during  the 
June  examinations.  How  alert  and  eager  he  was ! 
The  bored  and  perfunctory  air  of  his  fellow  mem 
bers  on  the  Board  of  Visitors  contrasted  sharply 
with  his  active,  expectant  interest. 


HE  lived  absolutely  in  his  own  day  and  genera 
tion,  and  no  contemporary  writer  of  real  worth 
escaped  his  notice.  He  is  never  lavish  in  his 
praise,  but  is  for  the  most  part  just  and  discrimi- 
24 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

nating.  Walt  Whitman  is  mentioned  only  thrice 
in  the  Journals,  Lowell  only  twice,  Longfellow 
once  or  twice,  Matthew  Arnold  three  times,  but 
Jones  Very  is  quoted  and  discussed  sixteen  times. 
Very  was  a  poet  who  had  no  fast  colors ;  he  has 
quite  faded  out  in  our  day. 

Of  Matthew  Arnold  Emerson  says :  "  I  should 
like  to  call  attention  to  the  critical  superiority  of 
Arnold,  his  excellent  ear  for  style,  and  the  singular 
poverty  of  his  poetry,  that  in  fact  he  has  written 
but  one  poem,  'Thyrsis,'  and  that  on  an  inspira 
tion  borrowed  from  Milton."  Few  good  readers, 
I  think,  will  agree  with  Emerson  about  the  poverty 
of  Arnold's  poetry.  His  "Dover  Beach"  is  one 
of  the  first-rate  poems  in  English  literature.  Em 
erson  has  words  of  praise  for  Lowell  —  thinks  the 
production  of  such  a  man  "a  certificate  of  good 
elements  in  the  soil,  climate,  and  institutions  of 
America,"  but  in  1868  he  declares  that  his  new 
poems  show  an  advance  "  in  talent  rather  than  in 
poetic  tone";  that  the  advance  "rather  expresses 
his  wish,  his  ambition,  than  the  uncontrollable  inte 
rior  impulse  which  is  the  authentic  mark  of  a  new 
poem,  and  which  is  unanalysable,  and  makes  the 
merit  of  an  ode  of  Collins,  or  Gray,  or  Words 
worth,  or  Herbert,  or  Byron."  He  evidently 
thought  little  of  Lowell's  severe  arraignment  of 
him  in  a  college  poem  which  he  wrote  soon  after 
the  delivery  of  the  famous  "Divinity  School 
25 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Address.'*  The  current  of  religious  feeling  in  Cam 
bridge  set  so  strongly  against  Emerson  for  several 
years  that  Lowell  doubtless  merely  reflected  it. 
Why  did  he  not  try  to  deflect  it,  or  to  check  it? 
And  yet,  when  Emerson's  friends  did  try  to  de 
fend  him,  it  was  against  his  will.  He  hated  to  be 
defended  in  a  newspaper:  "As  long  as  all  that  is 
said  is  against  me  I  feel  a  certain  austere  assurance 
of  success,  but  as  soon  as  honeyed  words  of  praise 
are  spoken  for  me  I  feel  as  one  that  lies  unprotected 
before  his  enemies." 

Next  to  Thoreau,  Emerson  devotes  to  Alcott 
more  space  in  his  Journals  than  to  any  other  man. 
It  is  all  telling  interpretation,  description,  and 
criticism.  Truly,  Alcott  must  have  had  some  ex 
traordinary  power  to  have  made  such  a  lasting 
impression  upon  Emerson.  When  my  friend 
Myron  Benton  and  I  first  met  Emerson  in  1863 
at  West  Point,  Emerson  spoke  of  Alcott  very  point 
edly,  and  said  we  should  never  miss  a  chance  to 
hear  his  conversation,  but  that  when  he  put  pen 
to  paper  all  his  inspiration  left  him.  His  thoughts 
faded  as  soon  as  he  tried  to  set  them  down.  There 
must  have  been  some  curious  illusion  about  it  all 
on  the  part  of  Emerson,  as  no  fragment  of  Alcott's 
wonderful  talk  worth  preserving  has  come  down  to 
us.  The  waters  of  the  sea  are  blue,  but  not  in  the 
pailful.  There  must  have  been  something  analo 
gous  in  Alcott's  conversations,  some  total  effect 
26 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

which  the  details  do  not  justify,  or  something  in 
the  atmosphere  which  he  created,  that  gave  cer 
tain  of  his  hearers  the  conviction  that  they  were 
voyaging  with  him  through  the  celestial  depths. 

It  was  a  curious  fact  that  Alcott  "could  not  re 
call  one  word  or  part  of  his  own  conversation,  or 
of  any  one's,  let  the  expression  be  never  so  happy." 
And  he  seems  to  have  hypnotized  Emerson  in  the 
same  way.  "He  made  here  some  majestic  utter 
ances,  but  so  inspired  me  that  even  I  forgot  the 
words  often."  "Olympian  dreams,"  Emerson 
calls  his  talk  —  moonshine,  it  appears  at  this 
distance. 

"His  discourse  soars  to  a  wonderful  height," 
says  Emerson,  "so  regular,  so  lucid,  so  playful,  so 
new  and  disdainful  of  all  boundaries  of  tradition 
and  experience,  that  the  hearers  seem  no  longer  to 
have  bodies  or  material  gravity,  but  almost  they 
can  mount  into  the  air  at  pleasure,  or  leap  at  one 
bound  out  of  this  poor  solar  system.  I  say  this 
of  his  speech  exclusively,  for  when  he  attempts  to 
write,  he  loses,  in  my  judgment,  all  his  power,  and 
I  derive  more  pain  than  pleasure  from  the  perusal." 
Some  illusion  surely  that  made  the  effort  to  report 
him  like  an  attempt  to  capture  the  rainbow,  only 
to  find  it  common  water. 

In  1842  Emerson  devotes  eight  pages  in  his 
Journal  to  an  analysis  of  Alcott,  and  very  masterly 
they  are.  He  ends  with  these  sentences :  "  This 
27 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

noble  genius  discredits  genius  to  me.  I  do  not 
want  any  more  such  persons  to  exist." 

"When  Alcott  wrote  from  England  that  he  was 
bringing  home  Wright  and  Lane,  I  wrote  him  a 
letter  which  I  required  him  to  show  them,  saying 
that  they  might  safely  trust  his  theories,  but  that 
they  should  put  no  trust  whatever  in  his  statement 
of  facts.  When  they  all  arrived  here  —  he  and 
his  victims  —  I  asked  them  if  he  showed  them  the 
letter ;  they  answered  that  he  did ;  so  I  was  clear.'* 

Another  neighbor  who  greatly  impressed  Em 
erson,  and  of  whom  he  has  much  to  say,  was 
Father  Taylor,  the  sailor  preacher  of  Boston.  There 
is  nothing  better  in  the  Journals  than  the  pages 
devoted  to  description  and  analysis  of  this  remark 
able  man.  To  Emerson  he  suggested  the 
wealth  of  Nature.  He  calls  him  a  "godly  poet,  the 
Shakespear  of  the  sailor  and  the  poor."  "I  de 
light  in  his  great  personality,  the  way  and  sweep 
of  the  man  which,  like  a  frigate's  way,  takes  up 
for  the  time  the  centre  of  the  ocean,  paves  it  with 
a  white  street,  and  all  the  lesser  craft  'do  curtsey 
to  him,  do  him  reverence.'"  A  man  all  emotion, 
all  love,  all  inspiration,  but,  like  Alcott,  impossible 
to  justify  your  high  estimate  of  by  any  quotation. 
His  power  was  all  personal  living  power,  and  could 
not  be  transferred  to  print.  The  livid  embers  of 
his  discourse  became  dead  charcoal  when  reported 
by  another,  or,  as  Emerson  more  happily  puts  it, 
28 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

"A  creature  of  instinct,  his  colors  are  all  opaline 
and  dove's-neck-lustre  and  can  only  be  seen  at 
a  distance.  Examine  them,  and  they  disappear." 
More  exactly  they  are  visible  only  at  a  certain 
angle.  Of  course  this  is  in  a  measure  true  of  all 
great  oratory  —  it  is  not  so  much  the  words  as 
the  man. 

Speaking  of  Father  Taylor  in  connection  with 
Alcott,  Emerson  says  that  one  was  the  fool  of  his 
ideas,  and  the  other  of  his  fancy. 

An  intellectual  child  of  Emerson's  was  Ellery 
Channing,  but  he  seems  to  have  inherited  in  an 
exaggerated  form  only  the  faults  of  his  father. 
Channing  appears  to  have  been  a  crotchety,  dis 
gruntled  person,  always  aiming  at  walking  on  his 
head  instead  of  on  his  heels.  Emerson  quotes 
many  of  his  sayings,  not  one  of  them  worth  pre 
serving,  all  marked  by  a  kind  of  violence  and  dis- 
jointedness.  They  had  many  walks  together. 

Emerson  was  so  fond  of  paradoxes  and  extreme 
statements  that  both  Channing  and  Thoreau  seem 
to  have  vied  with  each  other  in  uttering  hard  or 
capricious  sayings  when  in  his  presence.  Emer 
son  catches  at  a  vivid  and  picturesque  statement, 
if  it  has  even  a  fraction  of  truth  in  it,  like  a  fly 
catcher  at  a  fly. 

A  fair  sample  of  Channing's  philosophy  is  the  fol 
lowing  :  "He  persists  in  his  bad  opinion  of  orchards 
and  farming,  declares  that  the  only  success  he  ever 
29 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

had  with  a  farmer  was  that  he  once  paid  a  cent  for 
a  russet  apple ;  and  farming,  he  thinks,  is  an 
attempt  to  outwit  God  with  a  hoe ;  that  they  plant 
a  great  many  potatoes  with  much  ado,  but  it  is 
doubtful  if  they  ever  get  the  seed  back."  Chan- 
ning  seems  to  have  dropped  such  pearls  of  wis 
dom  as  that  all  along  the  road  in  their  walks ! 
Another  sample  of  Channing's  philosophy  which 
Emerson  thinks  worthy  of  quoting.  They  were 
walking  over  the  fields  in  November.  Channing 
complained  of  the  poverty  of  invention  on  the  part 
of  Nature :  "  *  Why,  they  had  frozen  water  last 
year;  why  should  they  do  it  again?  Therefore 
it  was  so  easy  to  be  an  artist,  because  they  do  the 
same  thing  always,'  and  therefore  he  only  wants 
time  to  make  him  perfect  in  the  imitation." 

VI 

EMERSON  was  occupied  entirely  with  the  future,  as 
Carlyle  was  occupied  entirely  with  the  past.  Emer 
son  shared  the  open  expectation  of  the  new  world, 
Carlyle  struggled  under  the  gloom  and  pessimism  of 
the  old  —  a  greater  character,  but  a  far  less  lambent 
and  helpful  spirit.  Emerson  seems  to  have  been 
obsessed  with  the  idea  that  a  new  and  greater  man 
was  to  appear.  He  looked  into  the  face  of  every 
newcomer  with  an  earnest,  expectant  air,  as  if  he 
might  prove  to  be  the  new  man  :  this  thought  in 
spires  the  last  stanzas  of  his  "  Song  of  Nature" : 
30 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

"Let  war  and  trade  and  creeds  and  song 
Blend,  ripen  race  on  race, 
The  sunburnt  world  a  man  shall  breed 
Of  all  the  zones  and  countless  days. 

"No  ray  is  dimmed,  no  atom  worn, 
My  oldest  force  is  good  as  new, 
And  the  fresh  rose  on  yonder  thorn 
Gives  back  the  bending  heavens  in  dew." 

Emerson  was  under  no  illusion  as  to  the  effect 
of  distance.  He  knew  the  past  was  once  the  pres 
ent,  and  that  if  it  seemed  to  be  transformed  and  to 
rise  into  cloud-land  behind  us,  it  was  only  the  en 
chantment  of  distance  —  an  enchantment  which 
men  have  been  under  in  all  ages.  The  everyday, 
the  near-at-hand,  become  prosaic ;  there  is  no  room 
for  the  alchemy  of  time  and  space  to  work  in.  It 
has  been  said  that  all  martyrdoms  looked  mean  in 
the  suffering.  Holy  ground  is  not  holy  when  we 
walk  upon  it.  The  now  and  the  here  seem  cheap 
and  commonplace.  Emerson  knew  that  "a  score 
of  airy  miles  will  smooth  rough  Monadnoc  to  a 
gem,"  but  he  knew  also  that  it  would  not  change 
the  character  of  Monadnoc.  He  knew  that  the 
past  and  the  present,  the  near  and  the  far,  were 
made  of  one  stuff.  He  united  the  courage  of  sci 
ence  with  the  sensibility  of  poetry.  He  would  not 
be  defrauded  of  the  value  of  the  present  hour,  or 
of  the  thoughts  which  he  and  other  men  think,  or 
of  the  lives  which  they  live  to-day.  "  I  will  tell 
you  how  you  can  enrich  me  —  if  you  will  recom 
mend  to-day  to  me."  His  doctrine  of  self-reliance, 
31 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

which  he  preached  in  season  and  out  of  season,  was 
based  upon  the  conviction  that  Nature  and  the  soul 
do  not  become  old  and  outworn,  that  the  great 
characters  and  great  thoughts  of  the  past  were  the 
achievements  of  men  who  trusted  themselves  before 
custom  or  law.  The  sun  shines  to-day ;  the  con 
stellations  hang  there  in  the  heavens  the  same  as  of 
old.  God  is  as  near  us  as  ever  He  was  —  why 
should  we  take  our  revelations  at  second  hand? 
No  other  writer  who  has  used  the  English  language 
has  ever  preached  such  a  heroic  doctrine  of  self- 
trust,  or  set  the  present  moment  so  high  in  the 
circle  of  the  years,  in  the  diadem  of  the  days. 

It  is  an  old  charge  against  Emerson  that  he 
was  deficient  in  human  sympathy.  He  makes 
it  against  himself;  the  ties  of  association  which 
most  persons  find  so  binding  seemed  to  hold  him 
very  lightly.  There  was  always  a  previous  ques 
tion  with  him  —  the  moral  value  of  one's  associa 
tions.  Unless  you  sicken  and  die  to  some  purpose, 
why  such  an  ado  about  it  ?  Unless  the  old  ruin  of 
a  house  harbored  great  men  and  great  women,  or 
was  the  scene  of  heroic  deeds,  why  linger  around 
it?  The  purely  human  did  not  appeal  to  him; 
history  interested  him  only  as  it  threw  light  upon 
to-day.  History  is  a  record  of  the  universal  mind ; 
hence  of  your  mind,  of  my  mind  —  "  all  the  facts 
of  history  preexist  in  the  mind  as  laws."  "  What 
Plato  thought,  every  man  may  think.  What  a 
32 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

saint  has  felt,  he  may  feel ;  what  at  any  time  has 
befallen  any  man,  he  can  understand."  "All 
that  Shakespear  says  of  the  king,  yonder  slip  of 
a  boy  that  reads  in  the  corner  feels  to  be  true  of 
himself  " ;  and  so  on,  seeing  in  history  only  biog 
raphy,  and  interested  in  the  past  only  as  he  can 
link  it  with  the  present.  Always  an  intellectual  in 
terest,  never  a  human  or  an  emotional  one.  His 
Journal  does  not  reveal  him  going  back  to  the  old 
places,  or  lingering  fondly  over  the  memories  of 
his  youth.  He  speaks  of  his  "unpleasing  boy 
hood,"  of  his  unhappy  recollections,  etc.,  not  be 
cause  of  unkindness  or  hardships  experienced, 
but  because  of  certain  shortcomings  or  deficiencies 
of  character  and  purpose,  of  which  he  is  conscious 
—  "some  meanness,"  or  "unfounded  pride"  which 
may  lower  him  in  the  opinion  of  others.  Pride, 
surely,  but  not  ignoble  pride. 

Emerson's  expectation  of  the  great  poet,  the 
great  man,  is  voiced  in  his  "Representative  Men"  : 
"  If  the  companions  of  our  childhood  should  turn  out 
to  be  heroes,  and  their  condition  regal,  it  would  not 
surprise  us."  On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  would 
surprise  most  of  us  very  much.  It  is  from  the 
remote,  the  unfamiliar,  that  we  expect  great  things. 
We  have  no  illusions  about  the  near-at-hand. 
But  with  Emerson  the  contrary  seems  to  have  been 
the  case.  He  met  the  new  person  or  took  up  the 
new  volume  with  a  thrill  of  expectancy,  a  condition 
33 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

of  mind  which  often  led  him  to  exaggerate  the  fact, 
and  to  give  an  undue  bias  in  favor  of  the  novel, 
the  audacious,  the  revolutionary.  His  optimism 
carried  him  to  great  lengths.  Many  of  the  new 
stars  in  his  literary  firmament  have  quite  faded 
out  — all  of  them,  I  think,  but  Walt  Whitman. 
It  was  mainly  because  he  was  so  full  of  faith  in  the 
coming  man  that  he  gave,  offhand,  such  a  tremen 
dous  welcome  to  "Leaves  of  Grass"  —a  welcome 
that  cooled  somewhat  later,  when  he  found  he  had 
got  so  much  more  of  the  unconventional  and  the 
self-reliant  than  he  had  bargained  for.  I  remem 
ber  that  when  I  spoke  of  Walt  Whitman  to  him  in 
Washington  in  1871  or  '72,  he  said  he  wished  Whit 
man's  friends  would  "quarrel"  with  him  more 
about  his  poems,  as  some  years  earlier  he  himself 
had  done,  on  the  occasion  when  he  and  Whitman 
walked  for  hours  on  Boston  Common,  he  remon 
strating  with  Whitman  about  certain  passages  in 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  per 
suade  him  to  omit  in  the  next  edition.  Whitman 
would  persist  in  being  Whitman.  Now,  counseling 
such  a  course  to  a  man  in  an  essay  on  "Self-Reli 
ance"  is  quite  a  different  thing  from  entirely  ap 
proving  of  it  in  a  concrete  example. 

In  1840  Emerson  writes:    "A  notice  of  modern 

literature  ought  to  include  (ought  it  not  ?)  a  notice 

of  Carlyle,  of  Tennyson,  of  Landor,  of  Bettina,  of 

Sampson  Reed."     The  first  three  names  surely,  but 

34 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

who  is  Bettina,  the  girl  correspondent  of  Goethe, 
that  she  should  go  in  such  a  list?  Reed,  we 
learn,  was  a  Boston  bank  clerk,  and  a  Swedenbor- 
gian,  who  wrote  a  book  on  the  growth  of  the  mind, 
from  which  Emerson  quotes,  and  to  which  he  often 
alludes,  a  book  that  has  long  been  forgotten ;  and 
is  not  Bettina  forgotten  also  ? 

Emerson  found  more  in  Jones  Very  than  has  any 
one  else;  the  poems  of  Very  that  he  included  in 
"Parnassus"  have  little  worth.  A  comparatively 
unknown  and  now  forgotten  English  writer  also 
moved  Emerson  unduly.  Listen  to  this  :  "  In  Eng 
land,  Landor,  De  Quincey,  Carlyle,  three  men  of 
original  literary  genius ;  but  the  scholar,  the  catholic, 
cosmic  intellect,  Bacon's  own  son,  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  on  the  Muse's  Bench  is  "  -  who  do  you 
think,  in  1847  ?  —  "Wilkinson"  !  Garth  Wilkinson, 
who  wrote  a  book  on  the  human  body.  Emerson 
says  of  him  in  "English  Traits"  :  "There  is  in  the 
action  of  his  mind  a  long  Atlantic  roll,  not  known  ex 
cept  in  deepest  waters,  and  only  lacking  what  ought 
to  accompany  such  powers,  a  manifest  centrality." 
To  bid  a  man's  stock  up  like  that  may  not,  in  the 
long  run,  be  good  for  the  man,  but  it  shows  what  a 
generous,  optimistic  critic  Emerson  was. 

VII 

IN  his  published  works  Emerson  is  chary  of  the 

personal  element ;  he  says :  "  We  can  hardly  speak 

35 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

of  our  own  experiences  and  the  names  of  our  friends 
sparingly  enough."  In  his  books  he  would  be 
only  an  impersonal  voice;  the  man  Emerson,  as 
such,  he  hesitated  to  intrude.  But  in  the  Journals 
we  get  much  more  of  the  personal  element,  as 
would  be  expected.  We  get  welcome  glimpses  of 
the  man,  of  his  moods,  of  his  diversions,  of  his 
home  occupations,  of  his  self-criticism.  We  see 
him  as  a  host,  as  a  lecturer,  as  a  gardener,  as  a  mem 
ber  of  a  rural  community.  We  see  him  in  his 
walks  and  talks  with  friends  and  neighbors  —  with 
Alcott,  Thoreau,  Channing,  Jones  Very,  Hawthorne, 
and  others  —  and  get  snatches  of  the  conversations. 
We  see  the  growth  of  his  mind,  his  gradual  emancipa 
tion  from  the  bondage  of  the  orthodox  traditions. 

Very  welcome  is  the  growth  of  Emerson's  ap 
preciation  of  Wordsworth.  As  a  divinity  student 
he  was  severe  in  his  criticism  of  Wordsworth,  but 
as  his  own  genius  unfolded  more  and  more  he  saw 
the  greatness  of  Wordsworth,  till  in  middle  life  he 
pronounced  his  famous  Ode  the  high-water  mark 
of  English  literature.  Yet  after  that  his  fondness 
for  a  telling,  picturesque  figure  allows  him  to  in 
quire  if  Wordsworth  is  not  like  a  bell  with  a  wooden 
tongue.  All  this  is  an  admirable  illustration  of 
his  familiar  dictum:  "Speak  what  you  think  now 
in  hard  words,  and  to-morrow  speak  what  to-mor 
row  thinks  in  hard  words  again,  though  it  contra 
dict  everything  you  say  to-day." 
36 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

In  the  Journals  we  see  Emerson  going  up  and 
down  the  country  in  his  walks,  on  his  lecture  tours 
in  the  West,  among  his  neighbors,  wherever  and 
whenever  he  goes  as  alert  and  watchful  as  a  sports 
man.  He  was  a  sportsman  of  a  new  kind;  his 
game  was  ideas.  He  was  always  looking  for  hints 
and  images  to  aid  him  in  his  writings.  He  was 
like  a  bird  perpetually  building  a  nest;  every 
moment  he  wanted  new  material,  and  everything 
that  diverted  him  from  his  quest  was  an  unwelcome 
interruption.  He  had  no  great  argument  to  build, 
no  system  of  philosophy  to  organize  and  formulate, 
no  plot,  like  a  novelist,  to  work  out,  no  controversy 
on  hand  —  he  wanted  pertinent,  concrete,  and 
striking  facts  and  incidents  to  weave  in  his  essay 
on  Fate,  or  Circles,  or  Character,  or  Farming,  or 
Worship,  or  Wealth  —  something  that  his  intui 
tive  and  disjointed  habit  of  thought  could  seize 
upon  and  make  instant  use  of. 

We  see  him  walking  in  free  converse  with  his 
friends  and  neighbors,  receiving  them  in  his  own 
house,  friendly  and  expectant,  but  always  standing 
aloof,  never  giving  himself  heartily  to  them,  ex 
changing  ideas  with  them  across  a  gulf,  prizing 
their  wit  and  their  wisdom,  but  cold  and  reserved 
toward  them  personally,  destitute  of  all  feeling  of 
comradeship,  an  eye,  an  ear,  a  voice,  an  intellect, 
but  rarely,  or  in  a  minor  degree,  a  heart,  or  a  feeling 
of  fellowship  —  a  giving  and  a  taking  quite  above 
37 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

and  beyond  the  reach  of  articulate  speech.  When 
they  had  had  their  say,  he  was  done  with  them. 
When  you  have  found  a  man's  limitations,  he  says, 
it  is  all  up  with  him.  After  your  friend  has  fired 
his  shot,  good-by.  The  pearl  in  the  oyster  is 
what  is  wanted,  and  not  the  oyster.  "If  I  love 
you,  what  is  that  to  you?"  is  a  saying  that  could 
have  been  coined  only  in  Concord.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  basis  of  all  wholesome  human  attach 
ment  is  character,  not  intellect.  Admiration  and 
love  are  quite  different  things.  Transcendental 
friendships  seem  to  be  cold,  bloodless  affairs. 

One  feels  as  if  he  wanted  to  squeeze  or  shake 
Emerson  to  see  if  he  cannot  get  some  normal  hu 
man  love  out  of  him,  a  love  that  looks  for  nothing 
beyond  love,  a  love  which  is  its  own  excuse  for 
being,  a  love  that  is  not  a  bargain  —  simple,  com 
mon,  disinterested  human  love.  But  Emerson  said, 
"I  like  man  but  not  men." 

"You  would  have  me  love  you,"  he  writes  in 
his  Journal.  "What  shall  I  love?  Your  body? 
The  supposition  disgusts  you.  What  you  have 
thought  and  said  ?  Well,  whilst  you  were  thinking 
and  saying  them,  but  not  now.  I  see  no  possibility 
of  loving  anything  but  what  now  is,  and  is  becom 
ing;  your  courage,  your  enterprise,  your  budding 
affection,  your  opening  thought,  your  prayer,  I 
can  love  —  but  what  else?" 

Can  you  not  love  your  friend  for  himself  alone, 
38 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

for  his  kinship  with  you,  without  taking  an  inven 
tory  of  his  moral  and  intellectual  qualities ;  for 
something  in  him  that  makes  you  happy  in  his 
presence?  The  personal  attraction  which  Whit 
man  felt  between  himself  and  certain  types  of  men, 
and  which  is  the  basis  of  most  manly  friendships, 
Emerson  probably  never  felt.  One  cannot  con 
ceive  of  him  as  caring  deeply  for  any  person  who 
could  not  teach  him  something.  He  says,  "I 
speculate  on  virtue,  not  burn  with  love."  Again, 
"A  rush  of  thoughts  is  the  only  conceivable  pros 
perity  that  can  come  to  me."  Pure  intellectual 
values  seem  alone  to  have  counted  with  Emerson 
and  his  followers.  With  men  his  question  was, 
"  What  can  you  teach  me  ?  "  With  Nature,  "  What 
new  image  or  suggestion  have  you  got  for  me  to 
day  ? "  With  science,  "What  ethical  value  do  your 
facts  hold  ?  "  With  natural  history, "  Can  I  translate 
your  facts  and  laws  into  my  supernatural  history  ?" 
With  civil  history,  "Will  your  record  help  me  to 
understand  my  own  day  and  land?"  The  quin 
tessence  of  things  was  what  he  always  sought. 

"We  cannot  forgive  another  for  not  being  our 
selves,"  Emerson  wrote  in  1842,  and  then  added, 
"We  lose  time  in  trying  to  be  like  others."  One 
is  reminded  of  passages  in  the  Emerson-Carlyle 
correspondence,  wherein  each  tried  to  persuade 
the  other  to  be  like  himself.  Carlyle  would  have 
Emerson  "become  concrete  and  write  in  prose  the 
39 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

straightest  way,'*  would  have  him  come  down  from 
his  "perilous  altitude,"  "soliloquizing  on  the  eter 
nal  mountain-tops  only,  in  vast  solitude,  where 
men  and  their  affairs  lie  all  hushed  in  a  very  dim 
remoteness  and  only  the  man  and  the  stars  and  the 
earth  are  visible  —  come  down  into  your  own  poor 
Nineteenth  Century,  its  follies,  its  maladies,  its 
blind,  or  half-blind  but  gigantic  toilings,  its  laughter 
and  its  tears,  and  try  to  evolve  in  some  meas 
ure  the  hidden  God-like  that  lies  in  it."  "I  wish 
you  would  take  an  American  hero,  one  whom  you 
really  love,  and  give  us  a  History  of  him  —  make 
an  artistic  bronze  statue  (in  good  words)  of  his 
Life  and  him!"  Emerson's  reply  in  effect  is, 
Cremate  your  heroes  and  give  me  their  ashes  — 
give  me  "the  culled  results,  the  quintessence  of 
private  conviction,  a  liber  veritatis,  a  few  sentences, 
hints  of  the  final  moral  you  draw  from  so  much  pen 
etrating  inquest  into  past  and  present  men." 

In  reply  to  Carlyle's  criticism  of  the  remote  and 
abstract  character  of  his  work,  Emerson  says, 
"What  you  say  now  and  heretofore  respecting  the 
remoteness  of  my  writing  and  thinking  from  real 
life,  though  I  hear  substantially  the  same  criticism 
made  by  my  countrymen,  I  do  not  know  what  it 
means.  If  I  can  at  any  time  express  the  law  and 
the  ideal  right,  that  should  satisfy  me  without 
measuring  the  divergence  from  it  of  the  last  act  of 
Congress." 

40 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

VIII 

EMERSON'S  love  of  nature  was  one  of  his  ruling 
passions.  It  took  him  to  the  country  to  live,  it 
led  him  to  purchase  Walden  Pond  and  the  Walden 
woods;  it  led  him  forth  upon  his  almost  daily 
walks,  winter  and  summer,  to  the  fields  and  the 
woods.  His  was  the  love  of  the  poet  and  the  ideal 
ist,  of  the  man  who  communes  with  Nature,  and 
finds  a  moral  and  an  intellectual  tonic  in  her  works. 
The  major  part  of  his  poetry  is  inspired  by  Nature. 
He  complains  of  Tennyson's  poetry  that  it  has 
few  or  no  wood  notes.  His  first  book,  "Nature," 
is  steeped  in  religious  and  poetic  emotion.  He 
said  in  his  Journal  in  1841  :  "All  my  thoughts  are 
foresters.  I  have  scarce  a  day-dream  on  which  the 
breath  of  the  pines  has  not  blown,  and  their  shad 
ows  waved.  Shall  I  not  then  call  my  little  book 
Forest  Essays?"  He  finally  called  it  "Nature." 
He  loves  the  "hermit  birds  that  harbor  in  the 
woods.  I  can  do  well  for  weeks  with  no  other 
society  than  the  partridge  and  the  jay,  my  daily 
company." 

"I  have  known  myself  entertained  by  a  single 
dew-drop,  or  an  icicle,  by  a  liatris,  or  a  fungus, 
and  seen  God  revealed  in  the  shadow  of  a  leaf." 
He  says  that  going  to  Nature  is  more  than  a  medi 
cine,  it  is  health.  "As  I  walked  in  the  woods  I 
felt  what  I  often  feel,  that  nothing  can  befall  me 
in  life,  no  calamity,  no  disgrace  (leaving  me  my 
41 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

eyes)  to  which  Nature  will  not  offer  a  sweet  con 
solation.  Standing  on  the  bare  ground  with  my 
head  bathed  by  the  blithe  air,  and  uplifted  into 
the  infinite  space,  I  became  happy  in  my  universal 
relations."  This  sentiment  of  his  also  recalls  his 
lines : 

"A  woodland  walk, 

A  quest  of  river-grapes,  a  mocking  thrush, 
A  wild-rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 
Salve  my  worst  wounds." 

If  life  were  long  enough,  among  my  thousand  and 
one  works  should  be  a  book  of  Nature  whereof  Howitt's 
Seasons  should  not  be  so  much  the  model  as  the  parody. 
It  should  contain  the  natural  history  of  the  woods 
around  my  shifting  camp  for  every  month  in  the  year. 
It  should  tie  their  astronomy,  botany,  physiology,  me 
teorology,  picturesque,  and  poetry  together.  No  bird, 
no  bug,  no  bud,  should  be  forgotten  on  his  day  and 
hour.  To-day  the  chickadees,  the  robins,  bluebirds  and 
song-sparrows  sang  to  me.  I  dissected  the  buds  of 
the  birch  and  the  oak ;  in  every  one  of  the  last  is  a  star. 
The  crow  sat  above  as  idle  as  I  below.  The  river 
flowed  brimful,  and  I  philosophised  upon  this  compos 
ite,  collective  beauty  which  refuses  to  be  analysed. 
Nothing  is  beautiful  alone.  Nothing  but  is  beautiful 
in  the  whole.  Learn  the  history  of  a  craneberry.  Mark 
the  day  when  the  pine  cones  and  acorns  fall. 

I  go  out  daily  and  nightly  to  feed  my  eyes  on  the 
horizon  and  the  sky,  and  come  to  feel  the  want  of  this 
scope  as  I  do  of  water  for  my  washing. 

What  learned  I  this  morning  in  the  woods,  the  orac 
ular  woods?  Wise  are  they,  the  ancient  nymphs; 
pleasing,  sober,  melancholy  truth  say  those  untameable 
savages,  the  pines. 

42 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

He  frequently  went  to  Walden  Pond  of  an  after 
noon  and  read  Goethe  or  some  other  great  author. 

There  was  an  element  of  mysticism  in  Emerson's 
love  of  nature  as  there  is  in  that  of  all  true  nature- 
lovers.  None  knew  better  than  he  that  nature  is 
not  all  birds  and  flowers.  His  love  of  nature  was 
that  of  the  poet  and  artist,  and  not  that  of  the 
scientist  or  naturalist. 

"I  tell  you  I  love  the  peeping  of  the  Hyla  in  a 
pond  in  April,  or  the  evening  cry  of  the  whippoor- 
will,  better  than  all  the  bellowing  of  all  the  Bulls 
of  Bashan,  or  all  the  turtles  of  all  Palestine." 

Any  personal  details  about  his  life  which  Emer 
son  gives  us  are  always  welcome.  We  learn  that 
his  different  winter  courses  of  lectures  in  Boston, 
usually  ten  of  them,  were  attended  on  an  average 
by  about  five  hundred  persons,  and  netted  him 
about  five  hundred  dollars. 

When  he  published  a  new  volume,  he  was  very 
liberal  with  presentation  copies.  Of  his  first  vol 
ume  of  poems,  published  in  1846,  he  sent  eighty 
copies  to  his  friends.  When  "  May-Day  "  was  pub 
lished  in  1867,  he  sent  fifty  copies  to  friends ;  one 
of  them  went  to  Walt  Whitman.  I  saw  it  the  day  it 
came.  It  was  in  a  white  dress  (silk,  I  think) ;  very 
beautiful.  He  sent  a  copy  of  his  first  volume  of 
' '  Nature ' '  to  Landor .  One  would  like  to  know  what 
Landor  said  in  reply.  The  copy  he  sent  to  Carlyle  I 
saw  in  the  Scot's  library,  in  Cheyne  Row,  in  1871, 
43 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

IX 

EMERSON  was  so  drawn  to  the  racy  and  original 
that  it  seems  as  if  original  sin  had  a  certain  fas 
cination  for  him.  The  austere,  the  Puritanical 
Emerson,  the  heir  of  eight  generations  of  clergy 
men,  the  man  who  did  not  like  to  have  Frederika 
Bremer  play  the  piano  in  his  house  on  Sunday, 
seems  at  times  to  covet  the  "  swear- words  "  of  the 
common  people.  They  itch  at  his  ears,  they  have 
flavor  and  reality.  He  sometimes  records  them  in 
his  Journal ;  for  example,  this  remark  of  the  Cana 
dian  wood-chopper  who  cut  wood  for  his  neighbor 
-  he  preferred  to  work  by  the  job  rather  than  by 
the  day  —  the  days  were  "so  damned  long  !" 

The  mob,  Emerson  says,  is  always  interesting : 
"A  blacksmith,  a  truckman,  a  farmer,  we  follow 
into  the  bar-room  and  watch  with  eagerness  what 
they  shall  say."  "Cannot  the  stinging  dialect  of 
the  sailor  be  domesticated?"  "My  page  about 
Consistency  would  be  better  written,  'Damn  Con 
sistency.*'  But  try  to  fancy  Emerson  swearing 
like  the  men  on  the  street !  Once  only  he  swore  a 
sacred  oath,  and  that  he  himself  records:  it  was 
called  out  by  the  famous,  and  infamous,  Fugitive 
Slave  Law  which  made  every  Northern  man  hound 
and  huntsman  for  the  Southern  slave-driver. 
"This  filthy  enactment,"  he  says,  "was  made  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century  by  men  who  could  read 
and  write.  I  will  not  obey  it,  by  God  !  " 

44 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

Evidently  the  best  thing  the  laboring  people  had 
to  offer  Emerson  was  their  racy  and  characteristic 
speech.  When  one  of  his  former  neighbors  said  of 
an  eclipse  of  the  sun  that  it  looked  as  if  a  "nigger" 
was  poking  his  head  into  the  sun,  Emerson  recorded 
it  in  his  Journal.  His  son  reports  that  Emerson 
enjoyed  the  talk  of  the  stable-men  and  used  to 
tell  their  anecdotes  and  boasts  of  their  horses  when 
he  came  home ;  for  example,  "  In  the  stable  you  'd 
take  him  for  a  slouch,  but  lead  him  to  the  door,  and 
when  he  lifts  up  his  eyes,  and  looks  abroad,  —  by 
thunder !  you'd  think  the  sky  was  all  horse." 
Such  surprises  and  exaggerations  always  attracted 
him,  unless  they  took  a  turn  that  made  him  laugh. 
He  loved  wit  with  the  laugh  taken  out  of  it.  The 
genial  smile  and  not  uproarious  laughter  suited 
his  mood  best. 

He  was  a  lover  of  quiet,  twinkling  humor.  Such 
humor  gleams  out  often  in  his  Journal.  It  gleams 
in  this  passage  about  Dr.  Ripley :  "Dr.  Ripley 
prays  for  rain  with  great  explicitness  on  Sunday, 
and  on  Monday  the  showers  fell.  When  I  spoke 
of  the  speed  with  which  his  prayers  were  answered, 
the  good  man  looked  modest."  There  is  another 
prayer-for-rain  story  that  he  enjoys  telling:  "Dr. 
Allyne,  of  Duxbury,  prayed  for  rain,  at  church.  In 
the  afternoon  the  boys  carried  umbrellas.  '  Why  ? ' 
*  Because  you  prayed  for  rain.'  'Pooh!  boys!  we 
always  pray  for  rain  :  it's  customary.'" 
45 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

At  West  Point  he  asked  a  lieutenant  if  they  had 
morning  prayers  at  college.  "We  have  reveilU 
beat,  which  is  the  same  thing." 

He  tells  with  relish  the  story  of  a  German  who 
went  to  hire  a  horse  and  chaise  at  a  stable  in  Cam 
bridge.  "Shall  I  put  in  a  buffalo?"  inquired  the 
livery-man.  "My  God!  no,"  cried  the  astonished 
German,  "put  in  a  horse." 

Emerson,  I  am  sure,  takes  pleasure  in  relating 
a  characteristic  story  of  Dr.  Ripley  and  a  thunder- 
shower :  "One  August  afternoon,  when  I  was  in 
the  hayfield  helping  him  with  his  man  to  rake  up 
his  hay,  I  well  remember  his  pleading,  almost  re 
proachful  looks  at  the  sky  when  the  thunder  gust 
was  coming  up  to  spoil  the  hay.  He  raked  very  fast, 
then  looked  at  the  clouds  and  said,  'We  are  in  the 
Lord's  hands,  mind  your  rake,  George !  we  are  in 
the  Lord's  hands,'  and  seemed  to  say,  'You  know 
me,  the  field  is  mine  —  Dr.  Ripley's  —  thine  own 
servant.'" 

The  stories  Emerson  delighted  in  were  all  rich 
in  this  quiet  humor.  I  heard  of  one  he  used  to  tell 
about  a  man  who,  when  he  went  to  his  club  at 
night,  often  lingered  too  long  over  his  cups,  and 
came  home  befuddled  in  the  small  hours,  and  was 
frequently  hauled  over  the  coals  by  his  wife.  One 
night  he  again  came  home  late,  and  was  greeted 
with  the  usual  upbraiding  in  the  morning.  "It 
was  not  late,"  he  said,  "  it  was  only  one  o'clock." 
46 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

"  It  was  much  later  than  that,"  said  the  wife.  "It 
was  one  o'clock,"  repeated  the  man;  "I  heard  it 
strike  one  three  or  four  times !" 

Another  good  Emersonian  story,  though  I  do 
not  know  that  he  ever  heard  it,  is  that  of  an  old 
woman  who  had  a  farm  in  Indiana  near  the  Michi 
gan  line.  The  line  was  resurveyed,  and  the  au 
thorities  set  her  farm  in  Michigan.  The  old  lady 
protested  —  she  said  it  was  all  she  could  do  to 
stand  the  winters  of  Indiana,  she  could  never  stand 
those  of  Michigan ! 

Cannot  one  see  a  twinkle  in  Emerson's  eye  when 
he  quotes  his  wife  as  saying  that  "it  is  wicked  to 
go  to  church  on  Sunday  "  ?  Emerson's  son  records 
that  his  father  hated  to  be  made  to  laugh,  as  he 
could  not  command  his  face  well.  Hence  he  evi 
dently  notes  with  approval  another  remark  of  his 
wife's :  "A  human  being  should  beware  how  he 
laughs,  for  then  he  shows  all  his  faults."  What 
he  thought  of  the  loud,  surprising  laugh  with 
which  Carlyle  often  ended  his  bitter  sentences,  I 
do  not  know  that  he  records.  Its  meaning  to  Car 
lyle  was  evidently,  "  Oh  !  what  does  it  all  matter  ?  " 
If  Emerson  himself  did  not  smile  when  he  wrote 
the  sentence  about  "  a  maiden  so  pure  that  she 
exchanged  glances  only  with  the  stars,"  his  reader, 
I  am  sure,  will. 

Emerson  evidently  enjoyed  such  a  story  as  this 
which  was  told  him  by  a  bishop  :  There  was  a  dis- 
47 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

pute  in  a  vestry  at  Providence  between  two  hot 
church-members.  One  said  at  last,  "  I  should 
like  to  know  who  you  are  " 

"  Who  I  am?  "  cried  the  other,  —  "  who  I  am  ! 
I  am  a  humble  Christian,  you  damned  old  heathen, 
you !  " 

The  minister  whom  he  heard  say  that  "nobody 
enjoyed  religion  less  than  ministers,  as  none  en 
joyed  food  so  little  as  cooks,"  must  have  provoked 
the  broadest  kind  of  a  smile. 

Although  one  of  Emerson's  central  themes  in 
his  Journals  was  his  thought  about  God,  or  his 
feeling  for  the  Infinite,  he  never  succeeded  in  for 
mulating  his  ideas  on  the  subject  and  could  not 
say  what  God  is  or  is  not.  At  the  age  of  twenty- 
one  he  wrote  in  his  Journal,  "  I  know  that  I  know 
next  to  nothing."  A  very  unusual,  but  a  very 
promising  frame  of  mind  for  a  young  man.  "  It  is 
not  certain  that  God  exists,  but  that  He  does  not 
is  a  most  bewildering  and  improbable  Chimera." 

A  little  later  he  wrote :  '  The  government  of 
God  is  not  a  plan  —  that  would  be  Destiny,  [or 
we  may  say  Calvinism,]  it  is  extempore." 

He  quotes  this  from  Plotinus  :  "Of  the  Unity  of 
God,  nothing  can  be  predicated,  neither  being,  nor 
essence,  nor  life,  for  it  is  above  all  these." 

It  was  a  bold  saying  of  his  that  "  God  builds 
his  temple  in  the  heart  on  the  ruins  of  churches  and 
religion." 

48 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

"  A  great  deal  of  God  in  the  universe,"  he  says, 
"  but  not  available  to  us  until  we  can  make  it  up 
into  a  man." 

But  if  asked,  What  makes  it  up  into  a  man? 
why  does  it  take  this  form?  he  would  have  been 
hard  put  to  it  for  an  answer. 

Persons  who  assume  to  know  all  about  God,  as 
if  He  lived  just  around  the  corner,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  said,  will  not  find  much  comfort  in  Emer 
son's  uncertainty  and  blind  groping  for  adequate 
expression  concerning  Him.  How  can  we  put  the 
All,  the  Eternal,  in  words  ?  How  can  we  define  the 
Infinite  without  self-contradiction  ?  Our  minds 
are  cast  in  the  mould  of  the  finite;  our  language 
is  fashioned  from  our  dealings  with  a  world  of 
boundaries  and  limitations  and  concrete  objects 
and  forces.  How  much  can  it  serve  us  in  deal 
ing  with  a  world  of  opposite  kind  —  with  the 
Whole,  the  Immeasurable,  the  Omnipresent,  and 
Omnipotent?  Of  what  use  are  our  sounding-lines 
in  a  bottomless  sea?  How  are  we  to  apply  our 
conceptions  of  personality  to  the  all-life,  to  that 
which  transcends  all  limitations,  to  that  which  is 
everywhere  and  yet  nowhere?  Shall  we  assign  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name  to  the  universal  en 
ergy  ?  As  the  sunlight  puts  out  our  lamp  or  can 
dle,  so  our  mental  lights  grow  pale  in  the  presence 
of  the  Infinite  Light.  We  can  deal  with  the  solid 
bodies  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  but  the  earth  as 
49 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

a  sphere  in  the  heavens  baffles  us.  All  our  terms 
of  over  and  under,  up  and  down,  east  and  west, 
and  the  like,  fail  us.  You  may  go  westward  around 
the  world  and  return  to  your  own  door  coming 
from  the  east.  The  circle  is  a  perpetual  contradic 
tion,  the  sphere  a  surface  without  boundaries, 
a  mass  without  weight.  When  we  ascribe  weight 
to  the  earth,  we  are  trying  it  by  the  standards  of 
bodies  on  its  surface  —  the  pull  of  the  earth  is  the 
measure  of  their  weight ;  but  the  earth  itself  - 
what  pulls  that  ?  Only  some  larger  body  can  pull 
that,  and  the  adjustment  of  the  system  is  such 
that  the  centripetal  and  centrifugal  forces  balance 
each  other,  and  the  globes  float  as  lightly  as  any 
feather. 

Emerson  said  he  denied  personality  to  God  be 
cause  it  is  too  little,  not  too  much.  If  you  ascribe 
personality  to  God,  it  is  perfectly  fair  to  pester 
you  with  questions  about  Him.  Where  is  He? 
How  long  has  He  been  there  ?  What  does  He  do  ? 
Personality  without  place,  or  form,  or  substance, 
or  limitation  is  a  contradiction  of  terms.  We  are 
the  victims  of  words.  We  get  a  name  for  a  thing 
and  then  invent  the  thing  that  fits  it.  All  our 
names  for  the  human  faculties,  as  the  will,  the 
reason,  the  understanding,  the  imagination,  con 
science,  instincts,  and  so  on,  are  arbitrary  divisions 
of  a  whole,  to  suit  our  own  convenience,  like  the 
days  of  the  week,  or  the  seasons  of  the  year.  Out 
50 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

of  unity  we  make  diversity  for  purposes  of  our 
practical  needs.  Thought  tends  to  the  one,  action 
to  the  many.  We  must  have  small  change  for 
everything  in  the  universe,  because  our  lives  are 
made  up  of  small  things.  We  must  break  wholes 
up  into  fractions,  and  then  seek  their  common 
multiple.  Only  thus  can  we  deal  with  them.  We 
deal  with  God  by  limiting  Him  and  breaking 
Him  up  into  his  attributes,  or  by  conceiving  Him 
under  the  figure  of  the  Trinity.  He  is  thus  less 
baffling  to  us.  We  can  handle  Him  the  better. 
We  make  a  huge  man  of  Him  and  then  try  to 
dodge  the  consequences  of  our  own  limitations. 

All  these  baffling  questions  pressed  hard  upon 
Emerson.  He  could  not  do  without  God  in  na 
ture,  and  yet,  like  most  of  us,  he  could  not  justify 
himself  until  he  had  trimmed  and  cut  away  a  part 
of  nature.  God  is  the  All,  but  the  All  is  a  hard 
mass  to  digest.  It  means  hell  as  well  as  heaven, 
demon  as  well  as  seraph,  geology  as  well  as  biology, 
devolution  as  well  as  evolution,  earthquake  as  well 
as  earth  tranquillity,  cyclones  as  well  as  summer 
breezes,  the  jungle  as  well  as  the  household,  pain 
as  well  as  pleasure,  death  as  well  as  life.  How 
are  you  to  reconcile  all  these  contradictions  ? 

Emerson  said  that  nature  was  a  swamp  with 

flowers  and  birds  on  the  borders,  and  terrible  things 

in  the  interior.     Shall  we  have  one  God  for  the 

fair  things,  and  another  God  for  the  terrible  things  ? 

51 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

"  Nature  is  saturated  with  deity,"  he  says,  the 
terrific  things  as  the  beatific,  I  suppose.  "A  great 
deal  of  God  in  the  universe,"  he  again  says,  "  but 
not  valuable  to  us  till  we  can  make  it  up  into  a 
man."  And  when  we  make  it  up  into  a  man  we 
have  got  a  true  compendium  of  nature;  all  the 
terrific  and  unholy  elements  —  fangs  and  poisons 
and  eruptions,  sharks  and  serpents  —  have  each 
and  all  contributed  something  to  the  make-up. 
Man  is  nature  incarnated,  no  better,  no  worse. 

But  the  majority  of  mankind  who  take  any  in 
terest  in  the  God-question  at  all  will  probably 
always  think  of  the  Eternal  in  terms  of  man,  and 
endow  Him  with  personality. 

One  feels  like  combating  some  of  Emerson's 
conclusions,  or,  at  least,  like  discounting  them. 
His  refusal  to  see  any  value  in  natural  science  as 
such,  I  think,  shows  his  limitations.  "  Natural 
history,"  he  says,  "by  itself  has  no  value;  it  is 
like  a  single  sex ;  but  marry  it  to  human  history 
and  it  is  poetry.  Whole  Floras,  all  Linnseus',  and 
Buffon's  volumes  contain  not  one  line  of  poetry." 
Of  course  he  speaks  for  himself.  Natural  facts, 
scientific  truth,  as  such,  had  no  interest  to  him. 
One  almost  feels  as  if  this  were  idealism  gone  to 
seed. 

"  Shall  I  say  that  the  use  of  Natural  Science 
seems  merely  *  ancillary  *  to  Morals  ?  I  would 
learn  the  law  of  the  defraction  of  a  ray  because 
52 


EMERSON  AND   HIS  JOURNALS 

when  I  understand  it,  it  will  illustrate,  perhaps 
suggest,  a  new  truth  in  ethics."  Is  the  ethical 
and  poetic  value  of  the  natural  sciences,  then, 
their  main  or  only  value  to  the  lay  mind? 
Their  technical  details,  their  tables  and  formulae 
and  measurements,  we  may  pass  by,  but  the 
natural  truths  they  disclose  are  of  interest  to 
the  healthy  mind  for  their  own  sake.  It  is  not  the 
ethics  of  chemical  reactions  and  combinations  — 
if  there  be  ethics  in  them  —  that  arrests  our  atten 
tion,  but  the  light  they  throw  on  the  problem  of 
how  the  world  was  made,  and  how  our  own  lives  go 
on.  The  method  of  Nature  in  the  physical  world 
no  doubt  affords  clues  to  the  method  of  Nature  in 
the  non-physical,  or  supersensuous  world.  But 
apart  from  that,  it  is  incredible  that  a  mind  like 
Emerson's  took  no  interest  in  natural  knowledge 
for  its  own  sake.  The  fact  that  two  visible  and 
inodorous  gases  like  hydrogen  and  oxygen  —  one 
combustible  and  the  other  the  supporter  of  com 
bustion  —  when  chemically  combined  produce 
water,  which  extinguishes  fire,  is  intensely  interest 
ing  as  affording  us  a  glimpse  of  the  contradictions 
and  paradoxes  that  abound  everywhere  in  Nature's 
methods.  If  there  is  any  ethics  or  any  poetry  in 
it,  let  him  have  it  who  can  extract  it.  The  great 
facts  of  nature,  such  as  the  sphericity  of  the  cos 
mic  bodies,  their  circular  motions,  their  mutual 
interdependence,  the  unprovable  ether  in  which 
53 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

they  float,  the  blue  dome  of  the  sky,  the  master 
currents  of  the  ocean,  the  primary  and  the  second 
ary  rocks,  have  an  intellectual  value,  but  how 
they  in  any  way  illustrate  the  moral  law  is  hard  to 
see.  The  ethics,  or  right  and  wrong,  of  attraction 
and  repulsion,  of  positive  and  negative,  have  no 
validity  outside  the  human  sphere.  Might  is  right 
in  Nature,  or,  rather,  we  are  outside  the  standards 
of  right  and  wrong  in  her  sphere.  Scientific  knowl 
edge  certainly  has  a  poetic  side  to  it,  but  we  do 
not  go  to  chemistry  or  to  geology  or  to  botany  for 
rules  for  the  conduct  of  life.  We  go  to  these  things 
mainly  for  the  satisfaction  which  the  knowledge 
of  Nature's  ways  gives  us. 

So  with  natural  history.  For  my  own  part  I 
find  the  life-histories  of  the  wild  creatures  about 
me,  their  ways  of  getting  on  in  the  world,  their 
joys,  their  fears,  their  successes,  their  failures,  their 
instincts,  their  intelligence,  intensely  interesting 
without  any  ulterior  considerations.  I  am  not 
looking  for  ethical  or  poetic  values.  I  am  looking 
for  natural  truths.  I  am  less  interested  in  the 
sermons  in  stones  than  I  am  in  the  life  under  the 
stones.  The  significance  of  the  metamorphosis 
of  the  grub  into  the  butterfly  does  not  escape  me, 
but  I  am  more  occupied  with  the  way  the  cater 
pillar  weaves  her  cocoon  and  hangs  herself  up  for 
the  winter  than  I  am  in  this  lesson.  I  had  rather 
see  a  worm  cast  its  skin  than  see  a  king  crowned. 
54 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

I  had  rather  see  Phoebe  building  her  mud  nest 
than  the  preacher  writing  his  sermon.  I  had  rather 
see  the  big  moth  emerge  from  her  cocoon  —  fresh 
and  untouched  as  a  coin  that  moment  from  the 
die  —  than  the  most  fashionable  "  coming  out  " 
that  society  ever  knew.  The  first  song  sparrow 
or  bluebird  or  robin  in  spring,  or  the  first  hepatica 
or  arbutus  or  violet,  or  the  first  clover  or  pond- 
lily  in  summer  —  must  we  demand  some  mystic 
password  of  them?  Must  we  not  love  them  for 
their  own  sake,  ere  they  will  seem  worthy  of  our 
love  ? 

To  convert  natural  facts  into  metaphysical 
values,  or  into  moral  or  poetic  values  —  in  short,  to 
make  literature  out  of  science  —  is  a  high  achieve 
ment,  and  is  worthy  of  Emerson  at  his  best,  but 
to  claim  that  this  is  their  sole  or  main  use  is  to  push 
idealism  to  the  extreme.  The  poet,  the  artist, 
the  nature  writer  not  only  mixes  his  colors  with 
his  brains,  he  mixes  them  with  his  heart's  blood. 
Hence  his  pictures  attract  us  without  doing  vio 
lence  to  nature. 

We  will  not  deny  Emerson  his  right  to  make 
poetry  out  of  nature ;  we  bless  him  for  the  inspira 
tion  he  has  drawn  from  this  source,  for  his  "  Wood- 
notes,"  his  "  Humble-Bee,"  his  "  Titmouse,"  his 
"May-Day,"  his  "Sea-Shore,"  his  "  Snow- 
Storm,"  and  many  other  poems.  But  we  must 
"  quarrel "  with  him  a  little,  to  use  one  of  his  fa- 
55 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

vorite  words,  for  seeming  to  undervalue  the  facts 
of  natural  science,  as  such,  and  to  belittle  the  works 
of  the  natural  historian  because  he  does  not  give 
us  poetry  and  lessons  in  morals  instead  of  botany  and 
geology  and  ornithology,  pure  and  simple.  "  Every 
thing,"  he  says,  "  should  be  treated  poetically  - 
law,  politics,  housekeeping,  money.  A  judge  and 
a  banker  must  drive  their  craft  poetically,  as  well 
as  a  dancer  or  a  scribe.  That  is,  they  must  exert 
that  higher  vision  which  causes  the  object  to  be 
come  fluid  and  plastic."  "  If  you  would  write  a 
code,  or  logarithms,  or  a  cook-book,  you  cannot 
spare  the  poetic  impulse."  "  No  one  will  doubt 
that  battles  can  be  fought  poetically  who  reads 
Plutarch  or  Las  Casas." 

We  are  interested  in  the  wild  life  around  us  be 
cause  the  lives  of  the  wild  creatures  in  a  measure 
parallel  our  own;  because  they  are  the  partakers 
of  the  same  bounty  of  nature  that  we  are ;  they 
are  fruit  of  the  same  biological  tree.  We  are  in 
terested  in  knowing  how  they  get  on  in  the  world. 
Bird  and  bee,  fish  and  man,  are  all  made  of  one 
stuff,  are  all  akin.  The  evolutionary  impulse  that 
brought  man,  brought  his  dog  and  horse.  Did 
Emerson,  indeed,  only  go  to  nature  as  he  went  to 
the  bank,  to  make  a  draft  upon  it  ?  Was  his  walk 
barren  that  brought  him  no  image,  no  new  idea? 
Was  the  day  wasted  that  did  not  add  a  new  line  to 
his  verse  ?  He  appears  to  have  gone  up  and  down 
56 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

the  land  seeking  images.  He  was  so  firmly  per 
suaded  that  there  is  not  a  passage  in  the  human 
soul,  perhaps  not  a  shade  of  thought,  but  has  its 
emblem  in  nature,  that  he  was  ever  on  the  alert 
to  discover  these  relations  of  his  own  mind  to  the 
external  world.  "  I  see  the  law  of  Nature  equally 
exemplified  in  bar-room  and  in  a  saloon  of  the  phi 
losopher.  I  get  instruction  and  the  opportunities 
of  my  genius  indifferently  in  all  places,  companies, 
and  pursuits,  so  only  there  be  antagonisms." 

Emerson  thought  that  science  as  such  bereaved 
Nature  of  her  charm.  To  the  man  of  little  or  no 
imagination  or  sensibility  to  beauty,  Nature  has 
no  charm  anyhow,  but  if  he  have  these  gifts,  they 
will  certainly  survive  scientific  knowledge,  and  be 
quickened  and  heightened  by  it. 

After  we  have  learned  all  that  the  astronomers 
can  tell  us  about  the  midnight  heavens,  do  we  look 
up  at  the  stars  with  less  wonder  and  awe?  After 
we  have  learned  all  that  the  chemist  and  the  physi 
cist  can  tell  us  about  matter  —  its  interior  activities 
and  its  exterior  laws  and  relations  —  do  we  ad 
mire  and  marvel  less?  After  the  geologist  has 
told  us  all  he  has  found  out  about  the  earth's  crust 
and  the  rocks,  when  we  quarry  our  building- 
stone,  do  we  plough  and  hoe  and  plant  its  soil 
with  less  interest  and  veneration?  No,  science  as 
the  pursuit  of  truth  causes  light  to  spring  out  of 
the  abysmal  darkness,  and  enhances  our  love  and 
57 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

interest  in  Nature.  Is  the  return  of  the  seasons 
less  welcome  because  we  know  the  cause?  Is  an 
eclipse  less  startling  because  it  occurs  exactly  on 
time?  Science  bereaves  Nature  of  her  dread  and 
fearsomeness,  it  breaks  the  spell  which  the  igno 
rance  and  credulity  of  men  have  cast  upon  her. 

Emerson  had  little  use  for  science  except  so  far 
as  it  yielded  him  symbols  and  parables  for  his 
superscience.  The  electric  spark  did  not  kindle 
his  interest  unless  it  held  an  ethical  fact  for  him; 
chemical  reactions  were  dull  affairs  unless  he 
could  trace  their  laws  in  mental  reactions.  "  Read 
chemistry  a  little,"  he  said,  "  and  you  will  quickly 
see  that  its  laws  and  experiments  will  furnish  an 
alphabet  or  vocabulary  for  all  of  your  moral 
observations."  He  found  a  lesson  in  composi 
tion  in  the  fact  that  the  diamond  and  lamp 
black  are  the  same  substance  differently  arranged. 
Good  writing,  he  said,  is  a  chemical  combination, 
and  not  a  mechanical  mixture.  That  is  not  the 
noblest  chemistry  that  can  extract  sunshine  from 
cucumbers,  but  that  which  can  extract  "honor 
from  scamps,  temperance  from  sots,  energy  from 
beggars,  justice  from  thieves,  benevolence  from 
misers." 

Though  mindful  of  the  birds  and  flowers  and 
trees  and  rivers  in  his  walks,  it  was  mainly  through 
his  pressing  need  of  figures  and  symbols  for  tran 
scendental  use.  He  says,  "  Whenever  you  enumer- 
58 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

ate  a  physical  law,  I  hear  in  it  a  moral  law."  His 
final  interest  was  in  the  moral  law.  Unless  the 
scientific  fact  you  brought  him  had  some  moral 
value,  it  made  little  impression  upon  him. 

He  admits  he  is  more  interested  to  know  "  why 
the  star  form  is  so  oft  repeated  in  botany,  and  why 
the  number  five  is  such  a  favorite  with  Nature, 
than  to  understand  the  circulation  of  the  sap  and 
the  formation  of  buds."  His  insight  into  Nature, 
and  the  prophetic  character  of  his  genius,  are  seen 
in  many  ways,  among  others  in  his  anticipation  or 
poetic  forecast  of  the  Darwinian  theory  of  the  origin 
of  species,  in  1853. 

"We  want  a  higher  logic  to  put  us  in  training 
for  the  laws  of  creation.  How  does  the  step  for 
ward  from  one  species  to  a  higher  species  of  an 
existing  genus  take  place  ?  The  ass  is  not  the 
parent  of  the  horse;  no  fish  begets  a  bird.  But 
the  concurrence  of  new  conditions  necessitates  a 
new  object  in  which  these  conditions  meet  and 
flower.  When  the  hour  is  struck  in  onward  nature, 
announcing  that  all  is  ready  for  the  birth  of 
higher  form  and  nobler  function,  not  one  pair  of 
parents,  but  the  whole  consenting  system  thrills, 
yearns,  and  produces.  It  is  a  favorable  aspect  of 
planets  and  of  elements." 

In  1840  he  wrote,  "The  method  of  advance 
in  Nature  is  perpetual  transformation."  In  the 
same  year  he  wrote : 

59 


THE   LAST   HARVEST 

*  There  is  no  leap  —  not  a  shock  of  violence 
throughout  nature.  Man  therefore  must  be  pre 
dicted  in  the  first  chemical  relation  exhibited  by 
the  first  atom.  If  we  had  eyes  to  see  it,  this  bit 
of  quartz  would  certify  us  of  the  necessity  that 
man  must  exist  as  inevitably  as  the  cities  he  has 
actually  built." 

X 

How  fruitful  in  striking  and  original  men  New 
England  was  in  those  days  —  poets,  orators,  pictur 
esque  characters  !  In  Concord,  Emerson,  Thoreau, 
Hawthorne,  Alcott ;  in  Boston  and  Cambridge, 
Lowell,  Longfellow,  Norton,  Holmes,  Higginson, 
Father  Taylor,  Bancroft,  Everett,  and  others,  with 
Webster  standing  out  like  a  Colossus  on  the  New 
Hampshire  granite.  This  crop  of  geniuses  seems 
to  have  been  the  aftermath  of  the  Revolution. 
Will  our  social  and  industrial  revolution  bring  any 
thing  like  another  such  a  crop?  Will  the  great 
World  W^ar  produce  another  ?  Until  now  too  much 
prosperity,  too  much  mammon,  too  much  "  at 
ease  in  Zion  "  has  certainly  prevailed  for  another 
band  of  great  idealists  to  appear. 

Emerson  could  never  keep  his  eyes  off  Webster. 
He  was  fairly  hypnotized  by  the  majesty  and 
power  of  his  mind  and  personality,  and  he  recurs 
to  him  in  page  after  page  of  his  Journal.  Web 
ster  was  of  primary  stuff  like  the  granite  of  his 
native  hills,  while  such  a  man  as  Everett  was  of 
60 


EMERSON  AND   HIS  JOURNALS 

the  secondary  formation,  like  the  sandstone  rocks. 
Emerson  was  delighted  when  he  learned  that  Car- 
lyle,  "  with  those  devouring  eyes,  with  that  por 
traying  hand,"  had  seen  Webster.  And  this  is 
the  portrait  Carlyle  drew  of  him :  "  As  a  Logic- 
fencer,  Advocate,  or  Parliamentary  Hercules, 
one  would  incline  to  back  him  at  first  sight  against 
all  the  extant  world.  The  tanned  complexion, 
that  amorphous,  crag-like  face ;  the  dull  black  eyes 
under  their  precipice  of  brows,  like  dull  anthra 
cite  furnaces,  needing  only  to  be  blown;  the  mas 
tiff-mouth,  accurately  closed  :  —  I  have  not  traced 
as  much  of  silent  Berserkir-rage,  that  I  remember 
of,  in  any  other  man." 

Emerson's  description  and  praise  and  criticism 
of  Webster  form  some  of  the  most  notable  pages 
in  his  Journal.  In  1843,  when  Webster  came  to 
Concord  as  counsel  in  a  famous  case  that  was  tried 
there,  the  fact  so  excited  Emerson  that  he  could 
not  sleep.  It  was  like  the  perturbation  of  a  planet 
in  its  orbit  when  a  large  body  passes  near  it.  Em 
erson  seems  to  have  spent  much  time  at  the  court 
house  to  hear  and  study  him :  "  Webster  quite 
fills  our  little  town,  and  I  doubt  if  I  shall  get  set 
tled  down  to  writing  until  he  has  well  gone  from 
the  county.  He  is  a  natural  Emperor  of  men." 
He  adjourned  the  court  every  day  in  true  imperial 
fashion,  simply  by  rising  and  taking  his  hat  and 
looking  the  Judge  coolly  in  the  face,  whereupon 
61 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

the  Judge  "  bade  the  Crier  adjourn  the  Court.*' 
But  when  Emerson  finally  came  to  look  upon  him 
with  the  same  feeling  with  which  he  saw  one  of 
those  strong  Paddies  of  the  railroad,  he  lost  his 
interest  in  the  trial  and  did  not  return  to  the  court 
in  the  afternoon.  "  The  green  fields  on  my  way 
home  wrere  too  fresh  and  fair,  and  forbade  me  to 
go  again." 

It  was  with  profound  grief  that  he  witnessed 
the  decline  of  Webster's  political  career,  owing  to 
his  truckling  to  the  Southern  proslavery  element, 
and  to  his  increasing  intemperance.  To  see  the 
placid,  transcendental  Emerson  "fighting  mad," 
flaring  up  in  holy  wrath,  read  his  criticisms  of 
Webster,  after  Webster's  defection  —  his  moral 
collapse  to  win  the  South  and  his  support  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law.  This  got  into  Emerson's 
blood  and  made  him  think  "  daggers  and  toma 
hawks."  He  has  this  to  say  of  a  chance  meeting 
with  Webster  in  Boston,  at  this  period :  "  I  saw 
Webster  on  the  street  — but  he  was  changed  since 
I  saw  him  last  —  black  as  a  thunder-cloud,  and 
careworn.  ...  I  did  not  wonder  that  he  de 
pressed  his  eyes  when  he  saw  me  and  would  not 
meet  my  face." 

In  1851  he  said  that  some  of  Webster's  late 
speeches  and  state  papers  were  like  "  Hail  Colum 
bia  "  when  sung  at  a  slave-auction  ;  then  he  follows 
with  the  terrible  remark :  "  The  word  liberty  in 
62 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

the  mouth  of  Mr.  Webster  sounds  like  the  word 
love  in  the  mouth  of  a  courtezan." 

The  prizes  or  fancied  prizes  of  politics  seem  to 
have  corrupted  all  the  great  men  of  that  day  — 
Webster,  Choate,  Foote,  Clay,  Everett.  Their 
"  disgusting  obsequiousness  "  to  the  South  fired 
Emerson's  wrath. 

XI 

THE  orthodox  brethren  of  his  time,  and  probably 
of  our  time  also,  I  fancy,  could  make  very  little  of 
Emerson's  religion.  It  was  the  religion  of  the 
spirit  and  not  of  the  utilitarian  and  matter-of-fact 
understanding.  It  identified  man  with  God  and 
made  all  nature  symbolical  of  the  spirit.  He  was 
never  tired  of  repeating  that  all  true  prayers  an 
swered  themselves  —  the  spirit  which  the  act  of 
prayer  begets  in  one's  self  is  the  answer.  Your 
prayer  for  humility,  for  charity,  for  courage,  begets 
these  emotions  in  the  mind.  The  devout  asking 
comes  from  a  perception  of  their  value.  Hence 
the  only  real  prayers  are  for  spiritual  good.  We 
converse  with  spiritual  and  invisible  things  only 
through  the  medium  of  our  own  hearts.  The  pre 
liminary  attitude  of  mind  that  moves  us  to  face  in 
this  direction  is  the  blessing.  The  soldier  who,  on 
the  eve  of  battle,  prays  for  courage,  has  already 
got  what  he  asks  for.  Prayer  for  visible,  material 
good  is  infidelity  to  the  moral  law.  God  is  within 
you,  more  your  better  self  than  you  are.  Many 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

prayers  are  a  rattling  of  empty  husks.  Emerson 
says  the  wise  man  in  the  storm  prays  God,  not  for 
safety  from  danger,  but  for  deliverance  from  fear. 

Although  Emerson  broke  away  from  all  religious 
forms,  yet  was  there  something  back  of  them  that 
he  always  respected,  as  do  we  all.  He  relates  that 
one  night  at  a  hotel  a  stranger  intruded  into  his 
chamber  after  midnight,  claiming  a  share  in  it. 
"  But  after  his  lamp  had  smoked  the  chamber  full, 
and  I  had  turned  round  to  the  wall  in  despair,  the 
man  blew  out  his  lamp,  knelt  down  at  his  bedside, 
and  made  in  low  whispers  a  long  earnest  prayer. 
Then  was  the  relation  entirely  changed  between  us. 
I  fretted  no  more,  but  respected  and  liked  him." 

Contrasting  his  own  case  with  that  of  so  many 
young  men  who  owed  their  religious  training  ex 
clusively  to  Cambridge  and  other  public  institu 
tions,  he  says :  "  How  much  happier  was  my  star 
which  rained  on  me  influence  of  ancestral  religion. 
The  depth  of  the  religious  sentiment  which  I  knew 
in  my  Aunt  Mary,  imbuing  all  her  genius  and  de 
rived  to  her  from  such  hoarded  family  traditions, 
from  so  many  godly  lives  and  godly  deeds  of 
sainted  kindred  of  Concord,  Maiden,  York,  was 
itself  a  culture,  an  education." 

xn 

A  COURSE  of  ten  lectures  which  he  delivered  in 

Boston  in  February,  1840,  on  the  "  Present  Age  " 

gave  him  little  pleasure.     He  could  not  warm  up, 

64 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

get  agitated,  and  so  warm  and  agitate  others : 
"  A  cold  mechanical  preparation  for  a  delivery  as 
decorous,  —  fine  things,  pretty  things,  wise  things, 
-  but  no  arrows,  no  axes,  no  nectar,  no  growling, 
no  transpiercing,  no  loving,  no  enchantment." 
Because  he  lacked  constitutional  vigor,  he  could 
expend  only,  say,  twenty-one  hours  on  each  lecture, 
if  he  would  be  able  and  ready  for  the  next.  If  he 
could  only  rally  the  lights  and  mights  of  sixty  hours 
into  twenty,  he  said,  he  should  hate  himself  less. 
Self-criticism  was  a  notable  trait  with  him.  Of 
self-praise  he  was  never  guilty.  His  critics  and 
enemies  rarely  said  severer  things  of  him  than  he 
said  of  himself.  He  was  almost  morbidly  conscious 
of  his  own  defects,  both  as  a  man  and  as  a  writer. 
There  are  many  pages  of  self-criticism  in  the 
Journals,  but  not  one  of  self-praise.  In  1842  he 
writes :  "I  have  not  yet  adjusted  my  relation  to 
my  fellows  on  the  planet,  or  to  my  own  work.  Al 
ways  too  young,  or  too  old,  I  do  not  justify  myself ; 
how  can  I  satisfy  others?"  Later  he  sighs,  "If 
only  I  could  be  set  aglow  ! "  He  had  wished  for  a 
professorship,  or  for  a  pulpit,  much  as  he  reacted 
from  the  church  —  something  to  give  him  the  stim 
ulus  of  a  stated  task.  Some  friend  recommended 
an  Abolition  campaign  to  him :  "  I  doubt  not  a 
course  in  mobs  would  do  me  good." 

Then  he  refers  to  his  faults  as  a  writer :    "  I 
think  I  have  material  enough  to  serve  my  country  - 
65 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

men  with  thought  and  music,  if  only  it  was  not 
scraps.  But  men  do  not  want  handfuls  of  gold 
dust  but  ingots." 

Emerson  felt  his  own  bardic  character,  but  la 
mented  that  he  had  so  few  of  the  bardic  gifts.  At 
the  age  of  fifty-nine  he  says :  "I  am  a  bard 
least  of  bards.  I  cannot,  like  them,  make  lofty 
arguments  in  stately,  continuous  verse,  constraining 
the  rocks,  trees,  animals,  and  the  periodic  stars 
to  say  my  thoughts,  —  for  that  is  the  gift  of 
great  poets ;  but  I  am  a  bard  because  I  stand  near 
them,  and  apprehend  all  they  utter,  and  with  pure 
joy  hear  that  which  I  also  would  say,  and,  moreover, 
I  speak  interruptedly  words  and  half  stanzas  which 
have  the  like  scope  and  aim : 

"What  I  cannot  declare,  yet  cannot  all  withhold." 

There  is  certainly  no  over-valuation  in  this  sen 
tence,  made  when  he  was  sixty-two :  "  In  the  ac 
ceptance  that  my  papers  find  among  my  thought 
ful  countrymen,  in  these  days,  I  cannot  help  seeing 
how  limited  is  their  reading.  If  they  read  only 
the  books  that  I  do,  they  would  not  exaggerate  so 
wildly/*  Two  years  before  that  he  had  said,  "  I 
often  think  I  could  write  a  criticism  of  Emerson 
that  would  hit  the  white." 

Emerson   was  a  narrow-chested,   steeple-shoul 
dered  man  with  a  tendency  to  pulmonary  disease, 
against  which  he  made  a  vigorous  fight  all  his  days. 
66 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

He  laments  his  feeble  physical  equipment  in  his 
poem,  "  Terminus  "  : 

"Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires, 
Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 
Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath. 
Failed  to  bequeath 
The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once, 
The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 
But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 
Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins,  — 
Amid  the  Muses,  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb, 
Amid  the  gladiators,  halt  and  numb." 

And  yet,  looking  back  near  the  end  of  his  life,  he 
says  that  considering  all  facts  and  conditions  he 
thinks  he  has  had  triumphant  health. 

XIII 

EMERSON'S  wisdom  and  catholicity  of  spirit  al 
ways  show  in  his  treatment  of  the  larger  concerns 
of  life  and  conduct.  How  remarkable  is  this  pas 
sage  written  in  Puritanic  New  England  in  1842 : 

I  hear  with  pleasure  that  a  young  girl  in  the  midst 
of  rich,  decorous  Unitarian  friends  in  Boston  is  well- 
nigh  persuaded  to  join  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
Her  friends,  who  are  also  my  friends,  lamented  to  me 
the  growrth  of  this  inclination.  But  I  told  them  that 
I  think  she  is  to  be  greatly  congratulated  on  the  event. 
She  has  lived  in  great  poverty  of  events.  In  form  and 
years  a  woman,  she  is  still  a  child,  having  had  no  ex 
periences,  and  although  of  a  fine,  liberal,  susceptible,  ex 
panding  nature,  has  never  yet  found  any  worthy  ob 
ject  of  attention ;  has  not  been  in  love,  nor  been  called 
out  by  any  taste,  except  lately  by  music,  and  sadly 
wants  adequate  objects.  In  this  church,  perhaps,  she 
shall  find  what  she  needs,  in  a  power  to  call  out  the 

67 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

slumbering  religious  sentiment.  It  is  unfortunate  that 
the  guide  who  has  led  her  into  this  path  is  a  young  girl 
of  a  lively,  forcible,  but  quite  external  character,  who 
teaches  her  the  historical  argument  for  the  Catholic 
faith.  I  told  A.  that  I  hoped  she  would  not  be  misled 
by  attaching  any  importance  to  that.  If  the  offices  of 
the  church  attracted  her,  if  its  beautiful  forms  and 
humane  spirit  draw  her,  if  St.  Augustine  and  St.  Ber 
nard,  Jesus  and  Madonna,  cathedral  music  and  masses, 
then  go,  for  thy  dear  heart's  sake,  but  do  not  go  out  of 
this  icehouse  of  Unitarianism,  all  external,  into  an  ice 
house  again  of  external.  At  all  events,  I  charged  her 
to  pay  no  regard  to  dissenters,  but  to  suck  that  orange 
thoroughly. 

And  this  on  the  Church  and  the  common  people 
written  the  year  before  : 

The  Church  aerates  my  good  neighbors  and  serves 
them  as  a  somewhat  stricter  and  finer  ablution  than  a 
clean  shirt  or  a  bath  or  a  shampooing.  The  minister 
is  a  functionary  and  the  meeting-house  a  functionary; 
they  are  one  and,  when  they  have  spent  all  their  week 
in  private  and  selfish  action,  the  Sunday  reminds  them 
of  a  need  they  have  to  stand  again  in  social  and  public 
and  ideal  relations  beyond  neighborhood,  —  higher 
than  the  town-meeting  —  to  their  fellow  men.  They 
marry,  and  the  minister  who  represents  this  high  public, 
celebrates  the  fact ;  their  child  is  baptized,  and  again 
they  are  published  by  his  intervention.  One  of  their 
family  dies,  he  comes  again,  and  the  family  go  up  pub 
licly  to  the  church  to  be  publicised  or  churched  in  this 
official  sympathy  of  mankind.  It  is  all  good  as  far  as 
it  goes.  It  is  homage  to  the  Ideal  Church,  which  they 
have  not :  which  the  actual  Church  so  foully  misrepre 
sents.  But  it  is  better  so  than  nohow.  These  people 
have  no  fine  arts,  no  literature,  no  great  men  to  bos- 
wellize,  no  fine  speculation  to  entertain  their  family  board 

68 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

or  their  solitary  toil  with.  Their  talk  is  of  oxen  and 
pigs  and  hay  and  corn  and  apples.  Whatsoever  lib 
eral  aspirations  they  at  any  time  have,  whatsoever 
spiritual  experiences,  have  looked  this  way,  and  the 
Church  is  their  fact  for  such  things.  It  has  not  been 
discredited  in  their  eyes  as  books,  lectures,  or  living 
men  of  genius  have  been.  It  is  still  to  them  the  accred 
ited  symbol  of  the  religious  Idea.  The  Church  is  not 
to  be  defended  against  any  spiritualist  clamoring  for 
its  reform,  but  against  such  as  say  it  is  expedient  to 
shut  it  up  and  have  none,  this  much  may  be  said.  It 
stands  in  the  history  of  the  present  time  as  a  high  school 
for  the  civility  and  mansuetude  of  the  people.  (I 
might  prefer  the  Church  of  England  or  of  Rome  as  the 
medium  of  those  superior  ablutions  described  above, 
only  that  I  think  the  Unitarian  Church,  like  the  Ly 
ceum,  as  yet  an  open  and  uncommitted  organ,  free  to 
admit  the  ministrations  of  any  inspired  man  that  shall 
pass  by :  whilst  the  other  churches  are  committed  and 
will  exclude  him.) 

I  should  add  that,  although  this  is  the  real  account 
to  be  given  of  the  church-going  of  the  farmers  and  vil 
lagers,  yet  it  is  not  known  to  them,  only  felt.  Do  you 
not  suppose  that  it  is  some  benefit  to  a  young  villager 
who  comes  out  of  the  woods  of  New  Hampshire  to  Bos 
ton  and  serves  his  apprenticeship  in  a  shop,  and  now 
opens  his  own  store,  to  hang  up  his  name  in  bright  gold 
letters  a  foot  long?  His  father  could  not  write  his 
name  :  it  is  only  lately  that  he  could  :  the  name  is  mean 
and  unknown :  now  the  sun  shines  on  it :  all  men,  all 
women,  fairest  eyes  read  it.  It  is  a  fact  in  the  great 
city.  Perhaps  he  shall  be  successful  and  make  it 
wider  known  :  shall  leave  it  greatly  brightened  to  his 
son.  His  son  may  be  head  of  a  party :  governor  of 
the  state  :  a  poet :  a  powerful  thinker  :  and  send  the 
knowledge  of  this  name  over  the  habitable  earth.  By 
all  these  suggestions,  he  is  at  least  made  responsible 

69 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

and  thoughtful  by  his  public  relation  of  a  seen  and 
aerated  name. 

Let  him  modestly  accept  those  hints  of  a  more  beau 
tiful  life  which  he  meets  with ;  how  to  do  with  few  and 
easily  gotten  things  :  but  let  him  seize  with  enthusiasm 
the  opportunity  of  doing  what  he  can,  for  the  virtues 
are  natural  to  each  man  and  the  talents  are  little  per 
fections. 

Let  him  hope  infinitely  with  a  patience  as  large  as 
the  sky. 

Nothing  is  so  young  and  untaught  as  time. 

How  wise  is  his  saying  that  we  do  not  turn  to 
the  books  of  the  Bible  —  St.  Paul  and  St.  John  —  to 
start  us  on  our  task,  as  we  do  to  Marcus  Aurelius, 
or  the  Lives  of  the  philosophers,  or  to  Plato,  or 
Plutarch,  "  because  the  Bible  wears  black  clothes  "  ! 
"  It  comes  with  a  certain  official  claim  against  which 
the  mind  revolts.  The  Bible  has  its  own  nobilities 
—  might  well  be  charming  if  left  simply  on  its  merits, 
as  other  books  are,  but  this,  *  You  must,' '  It  is  your 
duty,'  in  connection  with  it,  repels.  'T  is  like  the 
introduction  of  martial  law  into  Concord.  If  you 
should  dot  our  farms  with  picket  lines,  and  I  could 
not  go  or  come  across  lots  without  a  pass,  I  should 
resist,  or  else  emigrate.  If  Concord  were  as  beauti 
ful  as  Paradise,  it  would  be  as  detestable  to  me." 

In  his  essays  and  letters  Emerson  gives  one 
the  impression  of  never  using  the  first  words  that 
come  to  mind,  nor  the  second,  but  the  third  or 
fourth ;  always  a  sense  of  selection,  of  deliberate 
choice.  To  use  words  in  a  novel  way,  and  impart 
70 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

a' little  thrill  of  surprise,  seemed  to  be  his  aim. 
This  effort  of  selection  often  mars  his  page.  He 
is  rarely  carried  away  by  his  thought,  but  he  snares 
or  captures  it  with  a  word.  He  does  not  feel  first 
and  think  second ;  he  thinks  first,  and  the  feeling 
does  not  always  follow.  He  dearly  loved  writing ; 
it  was  the  joy  of  his  life,  but  it  was  a  conscious 
intellectual  effort.  It  was  often  a  kind  of  walking 
on  stilts ;  his  feet  are  not  on  the  common  ground. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  what  a  power  he  was,  and 
how  precious  his  contributions  ! 

He  says  in  his  Journal,  "  I  have  observed  long 
since  that  to  give  the  thought  a  full  and  just  ex 
pression  I  must  not  prematurely  utter  it.'*  This 
hesitation,  this  studied  selection  robs  him  of  the 
grace  of  felicity  and  spontaneity.  The  compensa 
tion  is  often  a  sense  of  novelty  and  a  thrill  of 
surprise.  Moreover,  he  avoids  the  commonplace 
and  the  cheap  and  tedious.  His  product  is  always 
a  choice  one,  and  is  seen  to  have  a  quality  of  its 
own.  No  page  has  more  individuality  than  his, 
and  none  is  so  little  like  the  page  of  the  ordinary 
professional  writer. 

'T  is  a  false  note  to  speak  of  Emerson's  doctrines, 
as  Henry  James  did.  He  had  no  doctrines.  He 
had  leading  ideas,  but  he  had  no  system,  no  ar 
gument.  It  was  his  attitude  of  mind  and  spirit 
that  was  significant  and  original.  He  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  stereotyped  opinions.  What 
71 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

he  said  to-day  might  contradict  what  he  said  yes 
terday,  or  what  he  might  say  to-morrow.  No 
matter,  the  spirit  was  the  same.  Truth  is  a  sphere 
that  has  opposite  poles.  Emerson  more  than  any 
other  writer  stood  for  the  contradictory  character 
of  spiritual  truth.  Truth  is  what  we  make  it  - 
what  takes  the  imprint  of  one's  mind ;  it  is  not  a 
definite  something  like  gold  or  silver,  it  is  any  state 
ment  that  fits  our  mental  make-up,  that  comes  home 
to  us.  What  comes  home  in  one  mood  may  not 
come  home  in  another. 

Emerson  had  no  creed,  he  had  no  definite  ideas 
about  God.  Personality  and  impersonality  might 
both  be  affirmed  of  Absolute  Being,  and  what  may 
not  be  affirmed  of  it  in  our  own  minds  ? 

The  good  of  such  a  man  as  Emerson  is  not  in 
his  doctrines,  but  in  his  spirit,  his  heroic  attitude, 
his  consonance  with  the  universal  mind.  His 
thought  is  a  tremendous  solvent;  it  digests  and 
renders  fluid  the  hard  facts  of  life  and  experience. 

XIV 

EMERSON  records  in  his  Journal :  "I  have  been 
writing  and  speaking  what  were  once  called  novel 
ties,  for  twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  and  have  not 
now  one  disciple.  Why?  Not  that  what  I  said 
was  not  true ;  not  that  it  has  not  found  intelligent 
receivers ;  but  because  it  did  not  go  from  any  wish 
in  me  to  bring  men  to  me,  but  to  themselves. 
72 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

I  delight  in  driving  them  from  me.  What  could 
I  do,  if  they  came  to  me  ?  —  they  would  interrupt 
and  encumber  me.  This  is  my  boast  that  I  have 
no  school  follower.  I  should  account  it  a  measure 
of  the  impurity  of  insight,  if  it  did  not  create  inde 
pendence." 

It  is  never  easy  to  stray  far  from  the  master  in 
high  moral,  aesthetic,  and  literary  matters  and  be 
on  the  safe  side ;  we  are  only  to  try  to  escape  his 
individual  bias,  to  break  over  his  limitations  and 
"  brave  the  landscape's  look  "  with  our  own  eyes. 
We  are  to  be  more  on  guard  against  his  affinities, 
his  unconscious  attractions  and  repulsions,  than 
against  his  ethical  and  intellectual  conclusions,  if 
one  may  make  that  distinction,  which  I  know  is 
hazardous  business.  We  readily  impose  our  own 
limitations  upon  others  and  see  the  world  as  old 
when  we  are  old. 

Emerson  criticized  Carlyle  because  Carlyle  was 
not  Emerson,  just  as  Carlyle  criticized  Emerson  be 
cause  he  was  not  Carlyle.  We  are  all  poor  beggars 
in  this  respect ;  each  of  us  is  the  victim  of  his  own 
demon.  Beware  of  the  predilection  of  the  master ! 
When  his  temperament  impels  him  he  is  no  longer 
a  free  man. 

We  touch  Emerson's  limitations  in  his  failure  to 

see  anything  in  Hawthorne's  work ;  they  had  "  no 

inside  to  them  " ;  "it  would  take  him  and  Alcott 

together  to   make  a   man " ;  and,   again,   in   his 

73 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

rather  contemptuous  disposal  of  Poe  as  "  the  jin 
gle  man"  and  his  verdict  upon  Shelley  as  "  never 
a  poet"!  The  intellectual  content  of  Shelley's 
work  is  not  great ;  but  that  he  was  not  a  poet,  in 
fact  that  he  was  anything  else  but  a  poet,  though 
not  of  the  highest  order,  is  contrary  to  the  truth,  I 
think.  Limitations  like  this  are  not  infrequent  in 
Emerson.  Yet  Emerson  was  a  great  critic  of  men 
and  of  books.  A  highly  interesting  volume  show 
ing  him  in  this  character  could  be  compiled  from 
the  Journals. 

Emerson  and  Hawthorne  were  near  neighbors 
for  several  years.  Emerson  liked  the  man  better 
than  his  books.  They  once  had  a  good  long  walk 
together ;  they  walked  to  Harvard  village  and  back, 
occupying  a  couple  of  days  and  walking  about 
twenty  miles  a  day.  They  had  much  conversa 
tion  —  talked  of  Scott  and  Landor  and  others. 
They  found  the  bar-rooms  at  the  inns  cold  and  dull 
places.  The  Temperance  Society  had  emptied 
them.  Hawthorne  tried  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  one 
of  them,  but  "was  soon  out  on  the  piazza."  Haw 
thorne,  Emerson  said,  was  more  inclined  to  play  Jove 
than  Mercury.  It  is  a  pleasing  picture  —  these 
two  men,  so  unlike,  but  both  typical  of  New  Eng 
land  and  both  men  of  a  high  order  of  genius,  walk 
ing  in  friendly  converse  along  the  country  roads  in 
the  golden  September  days  over  seventy  years  ago. 
Emerson  always  regretted  that  he  never  succeeded 
74 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

in  "  conquering  a  friendship  "  with  Hawthorne, 
mainly  because  they  had  so  few  traits  in  common. 
To  the  satisfaction  of  silent  intercourse  with  men 
Emerson  was  clearly  a  stranger.  There  must  be 
an  interchange  of  ideas;  the  feeling  of  comrade 
ship,  the  communion  of  congenial  souls  was  not 
enough.  Hawthorne,  shy,  silent,  rather  gloomy, 
yet  there  must  have  been  a  charm  about  his  mere 
presence  that  more  than  made  up  for  his  want  of 
conversation.  His  silence  was  golden.  Emerson 
was  a  transcendental  Yankee  and  was  always  bent 
on  driving  sharp  bargains  in  the  interchange  of 
ideas  with  the  persons  he  met.  He  did  not  pro 
pose  to  swap  horses  or  watches  or  jack-knives,  but 
he  would  swap  ideas  with  you  day  in  and  day  out. 
If  you  had  no  ideas  to  swap,  he  lost  interest  in  you. 

The  wisdom  of  a  great  creative  artist  like  Haw 
thorne  does  not  necessarily  harden  into  bright  epi 
grammatic  sayings  or  rules  for  the  conduct  of  life, 
and  the  available  intellectual  content  of  his  works 
to  the  Emersonian  type  of  mind  may  be  small; 
but  his  interior,  his  emotional  and  imaginative 
richness  may  much  more  than  make  it  up.  The 
scholar,  the  sayer  of  things,  must  always  rank  be 
low  the  creator,  or  the  maker  of  things. 

Philosophers   contradict   themselves   like   other 

mortals.     Here  and  there  in  his  Journals  Emerson 

rails  against  good  nature,  and  says  "  tomahawks 

are  better."     "  Why  should   they  call   me  good- 

75 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

natured  ?  I,  too,  like  puss,  have  a  tractile  claw." 
And  he  declares  that  he  likes  the  savers  of  No  bet 
ter  than  the  sayers  of  Yes,  and  that  he  preferred 
hard  clouds,  hard  expressions,  and  hard  manners. 
In  another  mood,  or  from  another  point  of  view, 
he  says  of  a  man,  "  Let  him  go  into  his  closet  and 
pray  the  Divinity  to  make  him  so  great  as  to  be 
good-natured."  And  again,  "  How  great  it  is  to 
do  a  little,  as,  for  instance,  to  deserve  the  praise  of 
good  nature,  or  of  humility,  or  of  punctuality." 

Emerson's  characterization  of  himself  as  always 
a  painter  is  interesting.  People,  he  said,  came  to 
his  lectures  with  expectation  that  he  was  to  realize 
the  Republic  he  described,  and  they  ceased  to  come 
when  they  found  this  reality  no  nearer :  "  They 
mistook  me.  I  am  and  always  was  a  painter.  I 
paint  still  with  might  and  main  and  choose  the 
best  subject  I  can.  Many  have  I  seen  come  and 
go  with  false  hopes  and  fears,  and  dubiously  af 
fected  by  my  pictures.  But  I  paint  on."  "  I  por 
tray  the  ideal,  not  the  real,"  he  might  have  added. 
He  was  a  poet-seer  and  not  a  historian.  He  was 
a  painter  of  ideas,  as  Carlyle  was  a  painter  of  men 
and  events.  Always  is  there  an  effort  at  vivid 
and  artistic  expression.  If  his  statement  does  not 
kindle  the  imagination,  it  falls  short  of  his  aim. 
He  visualizes  his  most  subtle  and  abstract  con 
ceptions  —  sees  the  idea  wedded  to  its  correlative 
in  the  actual  world.  A  new  figure,  a  fresh  simile 
76 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  He  went  hawking 
up  and  down  the  fields  of  science,  of  trade,  of  agri 
culture,  of  nature,  seeking  them.  He  thinks  in 
symbols,  he  paints  his  visions  of  the  ideal  with 
pigments  drawn  from  the  world  all  about  him.  To 
call  such  men  as  Emerson  and  Carlyle  painters  is 
only  to  emphasize  their  artistic  temperaments. 
Their  seriousness,  their  devotion  to  high  moral  and 
intellectual  standards,  only  lift  them,  as  they  do 
Whitman,  out  of  the  world  of  mere  decorative  art 
up  to  the  world  of  heroic  and  creative  art  where 
art  as  such  does  not  obtrude  itself. 

XV 

EMERSON  wonders  why  it  is  that  man  eating  does 
not  attract  the  imagination  or  attract  the  artist: 
"  Why  is  our  diet  and  table  not  agreeable  to  the 
imagination,  whilst  all  other  creatures  eat  without 
shame?  We  paint  the  bird  pecking  at  fruit,  the 
browsing  ox,  the  lion  leaping  on  his  prey,  but  no 
painter  ever  ventured  to  draw  a  man  eating.  The 
difference  seems  to  consist  in  the  presence  or  ab 
sence  of  the  world  at  the  feast.  The  diet  is  base, 
be  it  what  it  may,  that  is  hidden  in  caves  or  cellars 
or  houses.  ...  Did  you  ever  eat  your  bread  on 
the  top  of  a  mountain,  or  drink  water  there  ?  Did 
you  ever  camp  out  with  lumbermen  or  travellers 
in  the  prairie  ?  Did  you  ever  eat  the  poorest  rye 
or  oatcake  with  a  beautiful  maiden  in  the  wilder- 
77 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

ness  ?  and  did  you  not  find  that  the  mixture  of  sun 
and  sky  with  your  bread  gave  it  a  certain  mundane 
savour  and  comeliness  ?  " 

I  do  not  think  Emerson  hits  on  the  true  explana 
tion  of  why  man  feeding  is  not  an  attractive  sub 
ject  for  the  painter.  It  is  not  that  the  diet  is  base 
and  is  hidden  in  caves  and  cellars,  or  that  the  world 
is  not  present  at  the  feast.  It  is  because  eating 
is  a  purely  selfish  animal  occupation ;  there  is  no 
touch  of  the  noble  or  the  idyllic  or  the  heroic  in  it. 
In  the  act  man  confesses  his  animal  nature ;  he  is 
no  longer  an  Emerson,  a  Dante,  a  Plato  —  he  is 
simply  a  physiological  contrivance  taking  in  nu 
triment.  The  highest  and  the  lowest  are  for  the 
moment  on  the  same  level.  The  lady  and  her  maid, 
the  lord  and  his  lackey  are  all  one.  Eating  your 
bread  on  a  mountain-top  or  in  the  camp  of  lumber 
men  or  with  a  beautiful  maiden  in  the  wilder 
ness  adds  a  new  element.  Here  the  picture  has 
all  nature  for  a  background  and  the  imagination 
is  moved.  The  rye  and  the  oatcake  now  become 
a  kind  of  heavenly  manna,  or,  as  Fitzgerald  has  it, 
under  such  conditions  the  wilderness  is  Paradise 
enow.  The  simple  act  of  feeding  does  not  now 
engross  the  attention.  Associate  with  the  act  of 
eating  any  worthy  or  noble  idea,  and  it  is  at  once 
lifted  to  a  higher  level.  A  mother  feeding  her  child, 
a  cook  passing  food  to  the  tramp  at  the  door  or  to 
other  hungry  and  forlorn  wayfarers,  or  soldiers 
78 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

pausing  to  eat  their  rations  in  the  field,  or  fishermen 
beside  the  stream,  or  the  haymakers  with  their 
lunch  under  a  tree  —  in  all  such  incidents  there  are 
pictorial  elements  because  the  least  part  of  it  all  to 
the  looker-on  is  the  act  of  eating. 

In  Da  Vinci's  "  Last  Supper  "  the  mere  animal 
act  of  taking  food  plays  no  part ;  the  mind  is  oc 
cupied  with  higher  and  more  significant  things.  A 
suggestion  of  wine  or  of  fruit  in  a  painting  may  be 
agreeable,  but  from  a  suggestion  of  the  kitchen  and 
the  cook  we  turn  away.  The  incident  of  some  of 
Washington's  officers  during  the  Revolution  en 
tertaining  some  British  officers  (an  historical  fact) 
on  baked  potatoes  and  salt  would  appeal  to  the 
artistic  imagination.  All  the  planting  and  reaping 
of  the  farmers  is  suggestive  of  our  animal  wants, 
as  is  so  much  of  our  whole  industrial  activity ;  but 
art  looks  kindly  upon  much  of  it,  shows  us  more  or 
less  in  partnership  with  primal  energies.  People 
surrounding  a  table  after  all  signs  of  the  dinner 
have  been  removed  hold  the  elements  of  an  agree^ 
able  picture,  because  that  suggests  conversation  and 
social  intercourse  —  a  feast  of  reason  and  a  flow  of 
soul.  We  are  no  longer  animals ;  we  have  moved  up 
many  degrees  higher  in  the  scale  of  human  values. 

Emerson's  deep  love  and  admiration  for  Carlyle 

come  out  many  times  in  the  Journals.     No  other 

literary  man  of  his  times  moved  and  impressed 

him  so  profoundly.     Their  correspondence,  which 

79 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

lasted  upwards  of  forty  years,  is  the  most  valuable 
correspondence  known  to  me  in  English  literature. 
It  is  a  history  of  the  growth  and  development  of 
these  two  remarkable  minds. 

I  lately  reread  the  Correspondence,  mainly  to 
bring  my  mind  again  in  contact  with  these  noble 
spirits,  so  much  more  exalted  than  any  in  our  own 
time,  but  partly  to  see  what  new  light  the  letters 
threw  upon  the  lives  of  these  two  men. 

There  is  little  of  the  character  of  intimate  and 
friendly  letters  in  these  remarkable  documents. 
It  is  not  Dear  Tom  or  Dear  Waldo.  It  is 
Dear  Emerson  or  Dear  Carlyle.  They  are  not 
letters,  they  are  epistles,  like  Paul's  Epistle  to 
the  Ephesians,  or  to  the  Thessalonians,  or  to  the 
Romans.  Each  of  them  contains  the  fragments 
of  a  gospel  that  both  were  preaching,  each  in  his 
own  way,  but  at  bottom  the  same  —  the  beauty 
and  majesty  of  the  moral  law.  Let  the  heavens  fall, 
the  moral  law  and  our  duty  to  God  and  man  will 
stand.  These  two  men,  so  different  in  character 
and  temperament,  were  instantly  drawn  together 
by  that  magnet  —  the  moral  sentiment.  Carlyle's 
works  were  occupied  almost  entirely  with  men  - 
with  history,  biography,  political  events,  and 
government;  Emerson's  with  ideas,  nature,  and 
poetry ;  yet  the  bed  rock  in  each  was  the  same. 
Both  preached  an  evangel,  but  how  different ! 

Emerson  makes  a  note  of  the  days  on  which  he 
80 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

received  a  letter  from,  or  wrote  one  to,  his  great 
Scottish  friend.  Both  were  important  events  with 
him.  It  is  evident  that  Emerson  makes  more  of 
an  effort  to  write  his  best  in  these  letters  than 
does  Carlyle.  Carlyle  tosses  his  off  with  more  ease 
and  unconscious  mastery.  The  exchange  is  al 
ways  in  favor  of  the  Scot.  Carlyle  was,  of  course, 
the  more  prodigious  personality,  and  had  the  ad 
vantage  in  the  richness  and  venerableness  of  the 
Old  World  setting.  But  Emerson  did  not  hesitate 
to  discount  him  in  his  letters  and  in  his  Journals, 
very  wisely  sometimes,  not  so  wisely  at  others. 

"  O  Carlyle,  the  merit  of  glass  is  not  to  be 
seen,  but  to  be  seen  through;  but  every  crystal 
and  lamina  of  the  Carlyle  glass  is  visible."  Of 
course  Carlyle  might  reply  that  stained  glass  has 
other  merits  than  transparency,  or  he  might  ask : 
Why  should  an  author's  style  be  compared  to  glass 
anyhow,  since  it  is  impossible  to  dissociate  it  from 
the  matter  of  his  discourse?  It  is  not  merely  to 
reveal  truth;  it  is  also  to  enhance  its  beauty. 
There  is  the  charm  and  witchery  of  style,  as  in 
Emerson's  own  best  pages,  as  well  as  the  worth  of 
the  subject-matter.  Is  it  not  true  that  in  the  de 
scription  of  any  natural  object  or  scene  or  event 
we  want  something  more  than  to  see  it  through 
a  perfectly  transparent  medium?  We  want  the 
added  charm  or  illusion  of  the  writer's  own  way  of 
seeing  it,  the  hue  of  his  own  spirit. 
81 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

I  think  we  may  admit  all  this  —  doubtless  Emer 
son  would  admit  it  —  and  yet  urge  that  Carlyle's 
style  had  many  faults  of  the  kind  Emerson  indi 
cated.  It  thrusts  itself  too  much  upon  the  reader's 
attention.  His  prose  is  at  the  best,  as  in  the  "  Life 
of  Stirling,"  when  it  is  most  transparent]  and  freest 
from  mannerisms.  Carlyle's  manner  at  its  best  is 
very  pleasing ;  at  its  worst  it  becomes  a  wearisome 
mannerism.  When  a  writer's  style  gets  into  a  rut 
his  reader  is  not  happy.  Ease,  flexibility,  trans 
parency,  though  it  be  colored  transparency,  are 
among  the  merits  we  want. 

The  most  just  and  penetrating  thing  Emerson 
ever  said  about  Carlyle  is  recorded  in  his  Journal 
in  1847 :  "  In  Carlyle,  as  in  Byron,  one  is  much 
more  struck  with  the  rhetoric  than  with  the  matter. 
He  has  manly  superiority  rather  than  intellectuality, 
and  so  makes  good  hard  hits  all  the  time.  There 
is  more  character  than  intellect  in  every  sentence, 
herein  strongly  resembling  Samuel  Johnson." 
Criticism  like  this  carries  the  force  and  conviction 
of  a  scientific  analysis. 

The  Journals  abound  in  similar  illuminating  bits 
of  criticism  directed  to  nearly  all  the  more  noted 
authors  of  English  literature,  past  and  present. 
In  science  we  do  want  an  absolutely  colorless,  trans 
parent  medium,  but  in  literature  the  personality 
of  the  writer  is  everything.  The  born  writer  gives 
us  facts  and  ideas  steeped  in  his  own  quality  as  a 
82 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

man.  Take  out  of  Carlyle's  works,  or  out  of  Emer 
son's,  or  out  of  Arnold's,  the  savor  of  the  man's 
inborn  quality  —  the  savor  of  that  which  acts  over 
and  above  his  will  —  and  we  have  robbed  them 
of  their  distinctive  quality.  Literature  is  always 
truth  of  some  sort,  plus  a  man.  No  one  knew 
this  better  than  Emerson  himself.  Another  re 
mark  of  Emerson's,  made  when  he  was  twenty- 
seven  years  old,  has  high  literary  value : 

"  There  is  no  beauty  in  words  except  in  their 
collocation." 

It  is  not  beautiful  words  that  make  beautiful 
poetry,  or  beautiful  prose,  but  ordinary  words 
beautifully  arranged.  The  writer  who  hopes  by 
fine  language  to  invoke  fine  ideas  is  asking  the 
tailor  to  turn  him  out  a  fine  man.  First  get  your 
great  idea,  and  you  will  find  it  is  already  fitly 
clothed.  The  image  of  the  clothes  in  this  connec 
tion  is,  of  course,  a  very  inadequate  and  mislead 
ing  one,  since  language  is  the  thought  or  its  vital 
integument,  and  not  merely  its  garment.  We 
often  praise  a  writer  for  his  choice  of  words,  and 
Emerson  himself  says  in  the  same  paragraph  from 
which  I  quote  the  above  :  "  No  man  can  write  well 
who  thinks  there  is  no  choice  of  words  for  him." 
There  is  always  a  right  word  and  every  other  than 
that  is  wrong.  There  is  always  the  best  word,  or 
the  best  succession  of  words  to  give  force  and  vivid 
ness  to  the  idea.  All  painters  use  the  same  colors, 
83 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

all  musicians  use  the  same  notes,  all  sculptors  use 
the  same  marble,  all  architects  use  the  same  ma 
terials  and  all  writers  use  essentially  the  same 
words,  their  arrangement  and  combination  alone 
making  the  difference  in  the  various  products. 
Nature  uses  the  same  elements  in  her  endless  vari 
ety  of  living  things;  their  different  arrangement 
and  combinations,  and  some  interior  necessity 
which  we  have  to  call  the  animating  principle,  is 
the  secret  of  the  individuality  of  each. 

Of  course  we  think  in  words  or  images,  and  no 
man  can  tell  which  is  first,  or  if  there  is  any  first 
in  such  matters  —  the  thought  or  the  word  —  any 
more  than  the  biochemist  can  tell  us  which  is  first 
in  the  living  body,  the  carbon,  oxygen,  nitrogen, 
and  so  on,  or  the  living  force  that  weaves  itself  a 
corporeal  garment  out  of  these  elements. 

XVI 

EMERSON  hungered  for  the  quintessence  of  things, 
their  last  concentrated,  intensified  meanings,  for 
the  pith  and  marrow  of  men  and  events,  and  not 
for  their  body  and  bulk.  He  wanted  the  ottar  of 
roses  and  not  a  rose  garden,  the  diamond  and  not 
a  mountain  of  carbon.  This  bent  gives  a  peculiar 
beauty  and  stimulus  to  his  writings,  while  at  the 
same  time  it  makes  the  reader  crave  a  little  more 
body  and  substance.  The  succulent  leaf  and  stalk 
of  certain  garden  vegetables  is  better  to  one's  lik- 

84 


EMERSON  AND  HIS  JOURNALS 

ing  than  the  more  pungent  seed.  If  Emerson 
could  only  have  given  us  the  essence  of  Father 
Taylor's  copious,  eloquent,  flesh-and-blood  dis 
courses,  how  it  would  have  delighted  us !  or  if  he 
could  only  have  got  the  silver  out  of  Alcott's 
bewitching  moonshine  —  that  would  have  been 
worth  while ! 

But  why  wish  Emerson  had  been  some  other 
than  he  was?  He  was  at  least  the  quintessence 
of  New  England  Puritanism,  its  last  and  deepest 
meaning  and  result,  lifted  into  the  regions  of  ethics 
and  aesthetics. 


85 


II 

FLIES  IN  AMBER 

IT  has  been  the  fashion  among  our  younger  writers 
to  speak  slightingly  and  flippantly  of  Emerson, 
referring  to  him  as  outworn,  and  as  the  apostle  of 
the  obvious.  This  view  is  more  discreditable  to 
the  young  people  than  is  their  criticism  damaging 
to  Emerson.  It  can  make  little  difference  to  Em 
erson's  fame,  but  it  would  be  much  more  becoming 
in  our  young  writers  to  garland  his  name  with 
flowers  than  to  utter  these  harsh  verdicts. 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  Emerson  entered 
into  and  influenced  the  lives  of  more  choice  spirits, 
both  men  and  women,  during  the  past  generation 
than  did  any  other  American  author.  Whether 
he  still  does  so  would  be  interesting  to  know.  We 
who  have  felt  his  tonic  and  inspiring  influence  can 
but  hope  so.  Yet  how  impossible  he  seems  in 
times  like  these  in  which  we  live,  when  the  stars 
of  the  highest  heaven  of  the  spirit  which  illumine 
his  page  are  so  obscured  or  blotted  out  by  the  dust 
and  the  fog  of  our  hurrying,  materialistic  age ! 
Try  to  think  of  Emerson  spending  a  winter  going 
about  the  Western  States  reading  to  miscellaneous 
audiences  essays  like  those  that  now  make  up 
86 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

his  later  volumes.  What  chance  would  he  stand, 
even  in  university  towns,  as  against  the  "  movies  " 
(a  word  so  ugly  I  hesitate  to  write  it)  in  the  next 
street  ? 

I  once  defended  Emerson  against  a  criticism  of 
Matthew  Arnold's.  It  is  true,  as  Arnold  says, 
that  Emerson  is  not  a  great  writer,  except  on  rare 
occasions.  Now  and  then,  especially  in  his  ear 
lier  essays,  there  is  logical  texture  and  cohesion  in 
his  pages;  development,  evolution,  growth;  one 
thing  follows  another  naturally,  and  each  para 
graph  follows  from  what  went  before.  But  most 
of  his  later  writings  are  a  kind  of  patchwork ;  un 
related  ideas  are  in  juxtaposition;  the  incongrui 
ties  are  startling.  All  those  chapters,  I  suppose, 
were  read  as  lectures  to  miscellaneous  audiences 
in  which  the  attention  soon  became  tired  or 
blunted  if  required  to  follow  a  closely  reasoned  ar 
gument.  Pictures  and  parables  and  startling  affir 
mations  suited  better.  Emerson  did  not  stoop  to 
his  audience ;  there  was  no  condescension  in  him. 
The  last  time  I  heard  him,  which  was  in  Wash 
ington  in  the  early  seventies,  his  theme  was  "  Man 
ners,"  and  much  of  it  passed  over  the  heads  of 
his  audience. 

Certain  of  Emerson's  works  must  strike  the  av 
erage  reader,  when  he  first  looks  into  them,  as  a 
curious  medley  of  sense  and  wild  extravagance, 
utterly  lacking  in  the  logical  sequence  of  the  best 
87 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

prose,  and  often  verging  on  the  futile  and  the  ab 
surd.  Yet  if  one  does  not  get  discouraged,  one 
will  soon  see  running  through  them  veins  of  the 
purest  gold  of  the  spirit,  and  insight  into  Nature's 
ways,  that  redeem  and  more  than  redeem  them. 

I  recall  that  when,  as  a  young  man,  I  looked  into 
them  the  first  time,  I  could  make  nothing  of  them. 
I  was  fresh  from  reading  the  standard  essayists 
and  philosophers  of  English  literature  —  Addison, 
Steele,  Cowley,  Johnson,  Locke  —  and  the  poems  of 
Pope,  Young,  and  Cowper,  all  of  ethical  import 
and  value,  and  sometimes  didactic,  but  never  mys 
tical  and  transcendental,  and  the  plunge  into  Em 
erson  was  a  leap  into  a  strange  world.  But  a  few 
years  later,  when  I  opened  his  essays  again,  they 
were  like  spring-water  to  parched  lips.  Now,  in 
my  old  age,  I  go  back  to  him  with  a  half-sad  pleas 
ure,  as  one  goes  back  to  the  scenes  of  one's  youth. 

Emerson  taught  us  a  mingled  poetic  and  pro 
phetic  way  of  looking  at  things  that  stays  with  us. 
The  talented  English  woman  Anne  Gilchrist  said 
we  had  outgrown  Emerson ;  had  absorbed  all  he 
had  to  give  us ;  and  were  leaving  him  behind.  Of 
course  he  was  always  a  teacher  and  preacher,  in 
the  thrall  of  his  priestly  inheritance,  and  to  that 
extent  we  leave  him  behind  as  we  do  not  leave  be 
hind  works  of  pure  literature. 

As  to  continuity,  some  of  his  essays  have  much 
more  of  it  than  others.  In  his  "  Nature  "  the 
88 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

theme  is  unfolded,  there  is  growth  and  evolution; 
and  his  first  and  second  series  of  Essays  likewise 
show  it.  The  essays  on  "  Character,"  on  "  Self- 
Reliance,"  on  the  "  Over-Soul,"  meet  the  require 
ments  of  sound  prose.  And  if  there  is  any  sounder 
prose  than  can  be  found  in  his  "  Nature,"  or  in  his 
"  English  Traits,"  or  in  his  historical  and  biograph 
ical  addresses,  I  do  not  know  where  to  find  it. 
How  flat  and  commonplace  seem  the  works  of 
some  of  the  masters  of  prose  to  whom  Arnold 
alludes  —  Cicero,  Voltaire,  Addison,  Swift  —  com 
pared  with  those  of  Emerson !  A  difference  like 
that  between  the  prismatic  hues  of  raindrops  sus 
pended  from  a  twig  or  a  trellis  in  the  sunlight  and 
the  water  in  the  spring  or  the  brook. 

But  in  Emerson's  later  work  there  is,  as  geolo 
gists  say,  nonconformity  between  the  strata  which 
make  up  his  paragraphs.  There  is  only  juxta 
position.  Among  his  later  papers  the  one  on 
"  Wealth "  flows  along  much  more  than  the  one 
on  "  Fate."  Emerson  believed  in  wealth.  Pov 
erty  did  not  attract  him.  It  was  not  suited  to  his 
cast  of  mind.  Poverty  was  humiliating.  Emer 
son  accumulated  a  fortune,  and  it  added  to  his  self- 
respect.  Thoreau's  pride  in  his  poverty  must  have 
made  Emerson  shiver. 

Although  Arnold  refused  to  see  in  Emerson  a 
great  writer,  he  did  admit  that  he  was  eminent  as 
the  "  friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in 
89 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

the  spirit"  ;  but  Arnold  apparently  overlooked  the 
fact  that,  devoid  of  the  merit  of  good  literature, 
no  man's  writings  could  have  high  spiritual  value. 
Strip  the  Bible  of  its  excellence  as  literature,  and 
you  have  let  out  its  life-blood.  Literature  is  not 
a  varnish  or  a  polish.  It  is  not  a  wardrobe.  It 
is  the  result  of  a  vital,  imaginative  relation  of  the 
man  to  his  subject.  And  Emerson's  subject-mat 
ter  at  its  best  always  partakes  of  the  texture  of  his 
own  mind.  It  is  admitted  that  there  are  times 
when  his  writing  lacks  organization,  —  the  vital 
ties,  —  when  his  rhetoric  is  more  like  a  rocking- 
horse  or  a  merry-go-round  than  like  the  real  thing. 
But  there  are  few  writers  who  do  not  mark  time 
now  and  then,  and  Emerson  is  no  exception;  and 
I  contend  that  at  his  best  his  work  has  the  sequence 
and  evolution  of  all  great  prose.  And  yet,  let  me 
say  that  if  Emerson's  power  and  influence  de 
pended  upon  his  logic,  he  would  be  easily  disposed 
of.  Fortunately  they  do  not.  They  depend,  let  me 
repeat,  upon  his  spiritual  power  and  insight,  and 
the  minor  defects  I  am  pointing  out  are  only  like 
flies  in  amber. 

He  thought  in  images  more  strictly  than  any 
other  contemporary  writer,  and  was  often  desper 
ately  hard-put  to  it  to  make  his  thought  wed  his 
image.  He  confessed  that  he  did  not  know  how  to 
argue,  and  that  he  could  only  say  what  he  saw.  But 
he  had  spiritual  vision ;  we  cannot  deny  this,  though 
90 


FLIES   IN  AMBER 

we  do  deny  him  logical  penetration.  I  doubt  if  there 
ever  was  a  writer  of  such  wide  and  lasting  influence 
as  Emerson,  in  whom  the  logical  sense  was  so  feeble 
and  shadowy.  He  had  in  this  respect  a  feminine  in 
stead  of  a  masculine  mind,  an  intuitional  instead 
of  a  reasoning  one.  It  made  up  in  audacious,  often 
extravagant,  affirmations  what  it  lacked  in  syl 
logistic  strength.  The  logical  mind,  with  its  sense 
of  fitness  and  proportion,  does  not  strain  or  over 
strain  the  thread  that  knits  the  parts  together.  It 
does  not  jump  to  conclusions,  but  reaches  them 
step  by  step.  The  flesh  and  blood  of  feeling  and 
sentiment  may  clothe  the  obscure  framework  of 
logic,  but  the  logic  is  there  all  the  same.  Emerson's 
mind  was  as  devoid  of  logical  sense  as  are  our  re 
membered  dreams,  or  as  Christian  Science  is  of  sci 
ence.  He  said  that  truth  ceased  to  be  such  when 
polemically  stated.  Occasionally  he  amplifies  and 
unfolds  an  idea,  as  in  the  essays  already  mentioned, 
but  generally  his  argument  is  a  rope  of  sand.  Its 
strength  is  the  strength  of  the  separate  particles. 
He  is  perpetually  hooking  things  together  that  do 
not  go  together.  It  is  like  putting  an  apple  on  a 
pumpkin  vine,  or  an  acorn  on  a  hickory.  "  A  club 
foot  and  a  club  wit."  "  Why  should  we  fear,"  he 
says,  "to  be  crushed  by  the  same  elements  —  we 
who  are  made  up  of  the  same  elements?"  But 
were  we  void  of  fear,  we  should  be  crushed  much 
oftener  than  we  are.  The  electricity  in  our  bodies 
91 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

does  not  prevent  us  from  being  struck  by  light 
ning,  nor  the  fluids  in  our  bodies  prevent  the  waters 
from  drowning  us,  nor  the  carbon  in  our  bodies 
prevent  carbon  dioxide  from  poisoning  us. 

One  of  Emerson's  faults  as  a  writer  arose  from 
his  fierce  hunger  for  analogy.  "  I  would  rather 
have  a  good  symbol  of  my  thought,"  he  confesses, 
"  than  the  suffrage  of  Kant  or  of  Plato."  "  All 
thinking  is  analogizing,  and  it  is  the  use  of  life  to 
learn  metonymy."  His  passion  for  analogy  be 
trays  him  here  and  there  in  his  Journals,  as  in  this 
passage :  ' '  The  water  we  wash  with  never  speaks 
of  itself,  nor  does  fire  or  wind  or  tree.  Neither 
does  a  noble  natural  man,"  and  so  forth.  If  water 
and  fire  and  wind  and  tree  were  in  the  habit  of 
talking  of  anything  else,  this  kind  of  a  comparison 
would  not  seem  so  spurious. 

A  false  note  in  rhetoric  like  the  above  you  will 
find  in  Emerson  oftener  than  a  false  note  in  taste. 
I  find  but  one  such  in  the  Journals :  "As  soon  as 
a  man  gets  his  suction-hose  down  into  the  great 
deep,  he  belongs  to  no  age,  but  is  an  eternal  man." 
That  I  call  an  ignoble  image,  and  one  cannot  con 
ceive  of  Emerson  himself  printing  such  a  passage. 

We  hear  it  said  that  TVhittier  is  the  typical  poet 
of  New  England.  It  may  be  so,  but  Emerson  is 
much  the  greater  poet.  Emerson  is  a  poet  of  the 
world,  while  Whittier'a  work  is  hardly  known 
abroad  at  all.  Emerson  is  known  wherever  the 
92 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

English  language  is  spoken.  Not  that  Emerson 
is  in  any  sense  a  popular  poet,  such  as,  for  example, 
Burns  or  Byron,  but  he  is  the  poet  of  the  choice 
few,  of  those  who  seek  poetry  that  has  some  in 
tellectual  or  spiritual  content.  Whittier  wrote 
many  happy  descriptions  of  New  England  scenes 
and  seasons.  "  The  Tent  on  the  Beach "  and 
"  Snow-Bound  "  come  readily  to  mind ;  "  The 
Playmate  "  is  a  sweet  poem,  full  of  tender  and 
human  affection,  but  not  a  great  poem.  Whittier 
had  no  profundity.  Is  not  a  Quaker  poet  neces 
sarily  narrow?  Whittier  gave  voice  to  the  New 
England  detestation  of  slavery,  but  by  no  means 
so  forcibly  and  profoundly  as  did  Emerson.  He 
had  a  theology,  but  not  a  philosophy.  I  wonder 
if  his  poems  are  still  read. 

In  his  chapter  called  "  Considerations  by  the 
Way,"  Emerson  strikes  this  curious  false  note  in 
his  rhetoric :  "  We  have  a  right  to  be  here  or  we 
should  not  be  here.  We  have  the  same  right  to 
be  here  that  Cape  Cod  and  Sandy  Hook  have  to 
be  there."  As  if  Cape  Cod  or  Cape  Horn  or  Sandy 
Hook  had  any  "  rights " !  This  comparison  of 
man  with  inanimate  things  occurs  in  both  Emerson 
and  Thoreau.  Thoreau  sins  in  this  way  at  least 
once  when  he  talks  of  the  Attic  wit  of  burning 
thorns  and  briars.  There  is  a  similar  false  note 
in  such  a  careful  writer  as  Dean  Swift.  He  says 
to  his  young  poet,  "  You  are  ever  to  try  a  good 
93 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

poem  as  you  would  a  sound  pipkin,  and  if  it  rings 
well  upon  the  knuckle,  be  sure  there  is  no  flaw  in 
it."  Whitman  compares  himself  with]  an  inani 
mate  thing  in  the  line  : 

"I  reckon  I  behave   no   prouder  than    the   level    I  plant   my 
house  by." 

But  he  claims  no  moral  or  human  attributes  or 
rights  for  his  level ;  it  simply  acts  in  obedience  to 
the  principle  it  embodies  —  the  law  of  gravitation. 

The  lecturer  "  gets  away  "  with  such  things 
better  than  the  writer.  An  audience  is  not  criti 
cal  about  such  matters,  but  the  reader  takes  note 
of  them.  Mosaics  will  do  on  the  platform,  or  in 
the  pulpit,  but  will  not  bear  the  nearer  view  of  the 
study. 

The  incongruities  of  Emerson  are  seen  in  such 
passages  as  this :  "  Each  plant  has  its  parasites, 
and  each  created  thing  its  lover  and  poet,"  as  if 
there  were  any  relation  between  the  two  clauses  of 
this  sentence  —  between  parasites  and  lovers  and 
poets !  As  if  one  should  say,  "  Woodchucks  are 
often  alive  with  fleas,  and  our  fruit  trees  bloom  in 
May." 

;•  Emerson  was  so  emboldened  by  what  had  been 
achieved  through  the  mastery  of  the  earth's  forces 
that  he  was  led  to  say  that  "  a  wise  geology  shall 
yet  make  the  earthquake  harmless,  and  the  vol 
cano  an  agricultural  resource."  But  this  seems 
expecting  too  much.  We  have  harnessed  the 
94 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

lightnings,  but  the  earthquake  is  too  deep  and  too 
mighty  for  us.  It  is  a  steed  upon  which  we  cannot 
lay  our  hands.  The  volcano  we  may  draw  upon 
for  heat  and  steam,  as  we  do  upon  the  winds  and 
streams  for  power,  but  it  is  utterly  beyond  our 
control.  The  bending  of  the  earth's  crust  beneath 
the  great  atmospheric  waves  is  something  we  cannot 
bridle.  The  tides  by  sea  as  by  land  are  beyond  us. 

Emerson  had  the  mind  of  the  prophet  and 
the  seer,  and  was  given  to  bold  affirmations. 
The  old  Biblical  distinction  between  the  scribes 
and  the  man  who  speaks  with  authority  still 
holds.  We  may  say  of  all  other  New  England  essay 
ists  and  poets  —  Lowell,  Whipple,  Tuckerman, 
Holmes,  Hillard,  Whittier,  Longfellow  —  that  they 
are  scribes  only.  Emerson  alone  speaks  as  one 
having  authority  —  the  authority  of  the  spirit. 
"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  "  —  it  is  this  tone  that  gives 
him  his  authority  the  world  over. 

I  never  tire  of  those  heroic  lines  of  his  in  which 
he  sounds  a  battle-cry  to  the  spirit : 

"Though  love  repine,  and  reason  chafe, 
There  came  a  voice  without  reply,  — 
'  'T  is  man's  perdition  to  be  safe, 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die.'" 

The  last  time  I  saw  Emerson  was  at  the  Holmes 
seventieth-birthday  breakfast  in  1879.  The  serious 
break  in  his  health  had  resulted  in  a  marked  apha 
sia,  so  that  he  could  not  speak  the  name  of  his 
nearest  friend,  nor  answer  the  simplest  question. 
95 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

Yet  he  was  as  serene  as  ever.  Let  the  heavens 
fall  —  what  matters  it  to  me  ?  his  look  seemed  to 
say. 

Emerson's  face  had  in  it  more  of  what  we  call 
the  divine  than  had  that  of  any  other  author  of 
his  time  —  that  wonderful,  kindly,  wise  smile  — 
the  smile  of  the  soul  —  not  merely  the  smile  of 
good  nature,  but  the  smile  of  spiritual  welcome 
and  hospitality. 

Emerson  had  quality.  A  good  Emersonian  will 
recognize  any  passage  from  the  Sage  in  a  book  of 
quotations,  even  if  no  name  is  appended. 

We  speak  of  Emerson  as  outgrown,  yet  only 
yesterday  I  saw  in  J.  Arthur  Thomson's  recent 
Gifford  Lectures  on  "  The  System  of  Animate  Na 
ture,"  repeated  quotations  from  Emerson,  mainly 
from  his  poetry.  I  think  he  is  no  more  likely  to 
be  outgrown  than  are  Wordsworth  and  Arnold. 
Yet  I  do  not  set  the  same  value  upon  his  poetry 
that  I  do  upon  that  of  Wordsworth  at  his  best. 

Emerson  is  the  last  man  we  should  expect  to  be 
guilty  of  misinterpreting  Nature,  yet  he  does  so  at 
times.  He  does  so  in  this  passage :  "  If  Nature 
wants  a  thumb,  she  makes  it  at  the  cost  of  the 
arms  and  legs."  As  if  the  arm  were  weaker  or 
less  efficient  because  of  the  thumb.  What  would 
man's  power  be  as  a  tool-using  animal  without  his 
strong,  opposable  thumb?  His  grasp  would  be 
gone. 

96 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

He  says  truly  that  the  gruesome,  the  disgust 
ing,  the  repellent  are  not  fit  subjects  for  cabinet 
pictures.  The  "  sacred  subjects "  to  which  he 
objects  probably  refer  to  the  Crucifixion  —  the 
nails  through  the  hands  and  feet,  and  the  crown  of 
thorns.  But  to  jump  from  that  fact  to  the  asser 
tion  that  Nature  covers  up  the  skeleton  on  the 
same  grounds,  is  absurd.  Do  not  all  vertebrates 
require  an  osseous  system?  In  the  radiates  and 
articulates  she  puts  the  bony  system  on  the  out 
side,  but  when  she  comes  to  her  backbone  animals, 
she  perforce  puts  her  osseous  system  beneath. 
She  weaves  her  tissues  and  integuments  of  flesh 
and  skin  and  hair  over  it,  not  to  hide  it,  but  to  use 
it.  Would  you  have  a  man  like  a  jellyfish  ? 

The  same  want  of  logic  marks  Carlyle's  mind 
when  he  says :  "  The  drop  by  continually  falling 
bores  its  way  through  the  hardest  rock.  The  hasty 
torrent  rushes  over  it  with  hideous  uproar,  and 
leaves  no  trace  behind."  But  give  the  "  hasty 
torrent  "  the  same  time  you  give  the  drop,  and  see 
what  it  will  do  to  the  rock ! 

Emerson  says,  "  A  little  more  or  a  little  less 
does  not  signify  anything."  But  it  does  signify 
in  this  world  of  material  things.  Is  one  man  as 
impressive  as  an  army,  one  tree  as  impressive  as  a 
forest?  "Scoop  a  little  water  in  the  hollow  of 
your  palm ;  take  up  a  handful  of  shore  sand ;  well, 
these  are  the  elements.  What  is  the  beach  but 
97 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

acres  of  sand  ?  what  is  the  ocean  but  cubic  miles 
of  water?  A  little  more  or  a  little  less  signifies 
nothing."  It  is  the  mass  that  does  impress  us,  as 
Niagara  does,  as  the  midnight  sky  does.  It  is  not 
as  parts  of  this  "  astonishing  astronomy,"  or  as  a 
"  part  of  the  round  globe  under  the  optical  sky  " 
—  we  do  not  think  of  that,  but  the  imagination  is 
moved  by  the  vast  sweep  of  the  ocean  and  its 
abysmal  depths,  and  its  ceaseless  rocking.  In  some 
cases  we  see  the  All  in  the  little;  the  law  that 
spheres  a  tear  spheres  a  globe.  That  Nature  is 
seen  in  leasts  is  an  old  Latin  maxim.  The  soap 
bubble  explains  the  rainbow.  Steam  from  the 
boiling  kettle  gave  Watt  the  key  to  the  steam  en 
gine  ;  but  a  tumbler  of  water  throws  no  light  on  the 
sea,  though  its  sweating  may  help  explain  the  rain. 

Emerson  quotes  Goethe  as  saying,  "  The  beau 
tiful  is  a  manifestation  of  secret  laws  of  nature 
which,  but  for  this  appearance,  had  been  forever 
concealed  from  us."  As  if  beauty  were  an  ob 
jective  reality  instead  of  a  subjective  experience! 
As  if  it  were  something  out  there  in  the  landscape 
that  you  may  gather  your  arms  full  of  and  bring  in  ! 
If  you  are  an  artist,  you  may  bring  in  your  vision 
of  it,  pass  it  through  your  own  mind,  and  thus  em 
balm  and  preserve  the  beauty.  Or  if  you  are  a 
poet,  you  may  have  a  similar  experience  and  re 
produce  it,  humanized,  in  a  poem.  But  the  beauty 
is  always  a  distilled  and  re-created,  or,  shall  we 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

say,  an  incarnated  beauty  —  a  tangible  and  meas 
urable  something,  like  moisture  in  the  air,  or 
sugar  in  the  trees,  or  quartz  in  the  rocks.  There 
is,  and  can  be,  no  "  science  of  beauty."  Beauty, 
like  truth,  is  an  experience  of  the  mind.  It  is  the 
emotion  you  feel  when  in  health  you  look  from 
your  door  or  window  of  a  May  morning.  If  you 
are  ill,  or  oppressed  with  grief,  or  worried,  you  will 
hardly  experience  the  emotion  of  the  beautiful. 

Emerson  said  he  was  warned  by  the  fate  of  many 
philosophers  not  to  attempt  a  definition  of  beauty. 
But  in  trying  to  describe  it  and  characterize  it  he 
ran  the  same  risk.  "  We  ascribe  beauty  to  that 
which  is  simple,"  he  said ;  "  which  has  no  super 
fluous  parts ;  which  exactly  answers  its  end ;  which 
stands  related  to  all  things ;  which  is  the  mean  of 
many  extremes."  Is  a  boot-jack  beautiful?  Is 
a  crow-bar?  Yet  these  are  simple,  they  have  no 
superfluous  parts,  they  exactly  serve  their  ends, 
they  stand  related  to  all  things  through  the  laws  of 
chemistry  and  physics.  A  flower  is  beautiful,  a 
shell  on  the  beach  is  beautiful,  a  tree  in  full  leaf, 
or  in  its  winter  nudity,  is  beautiful ;  but  these 
things  are  not  very  simple.  Complex  things  may 
be  beautiful  also.  A  village  church  may  be  beau 
tiful  no  less  than  a  Gothic  cathedral.  Emerson 
was  himself  a  beautiful  writer,  a  beautiful  char 
acter,  and  his  works  are  a  priceless  addition  to  lit 
erature, 

99 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

44  Go  out  of  the  house  to  see  the  moon,"  says 
Emerson,  "  and  it  is  mere  tinsel ;  it  will  not  please 
as  when  its  light  shines  upon  your  necessary  jour 
ney."  This  is  not  true  in  my  experience.  The 
stars  do  not  become  mere  tinsel,  do  they,  when 
we  go  out  to  look  at  the  overwhelming  spectacle  ? 
Neither  does  the  moon.  Is  it  not  a  delight  in  it 
self  to  look  at  the  full  moon  — 

"The  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon,  just  tinged  with  blue," 

as  Whitman  says  ? 

"The  moon  doth  look  round  her  with  delight  when  the  heavens 
are  bare," 

says  Wordsworth,  and  equally  with  delight  do 
we  regard  the  spectacle.  The  busy  farmer  in 
the  fields  rarely  sees  the  beauty  of  Nature.  He 
has  not  the  necessary  detachment.  Put  him  be 
hind  his  team  and  plough  in  the  spring  and  he 
makes  a  pleasing  picture  to  look  upon,  but  the 
mind  must  be  open  to  take  in  the  beauty  of  Na 
ture. 

Of  course  Emerson  is  only  emphasizing  the  fact 
of  the  beauty  of  utility,  of  the  things  we  do,  of  the 
buildings  we  put  up  for  use,  and  not  merely  for 
show.  A  hut,  a  log  cabin  in  a  clearing,  a  farmer's 
unpainted  barn,  all  have  elements  of  beauty.  A 
man  leading  a  horse  to  water,  or  foddering  his 
cattle  from  a  stack  in  a  snow-covered  field,  or  fol 
lowing  his  plough,  is  always  pleasing.  Every  day 
I  pass  along  a  road  by  a  wealthy  man's  estate  and 
100 


FLIES  IN  AMBER 

see  a  very  elaborate  stone  wall  of  cobblestones  and 
cement  which  marks  the  boundary  of  his  estate  on 
the  highway.  The  wall  does  not  bend  and  un 
dulate  with  the  inequalities  of  the  ground ;  its  top 
is  as  level  as  a  foundation  wall ;  it  is  an  offense  to 
every  passer-by ;  it  has  none  of  the  simplicity  that 
should  mark  a  division  wall ;  it  is  studied  and  elab 
orate,  and  courts  your  admiration.  How  much 
more  pleasing  a  rough  wall  of  field  stone,  or  "  wild 
stone,"  as  our  old  wall-layer  put  it,  with  which 
the  farmer  separates  his  fields !  No  thought  of 
looks,  but  only  of  utility.  The  showy,  the  highly 
ornate  castle  which  the  multimillionaire  builds  on 
his  estate  —  would  an  artist  ever  want  to  put  one 
of  them  in  his  picture?  Beauty  is  likely  to  flee 
when  we  make  a  dead  set  at  her. 

Emerson's  exaggerations  are  sometimes  so  ex 
cessive  as  to  be  simply  amusing,  as,  when  speaking 
of  the  feats  of  the  imagination,  he  says,  "  My  boots 
and  chair  and  candlestick  are  fairies  in  disguise, 
meteors  and  constellations."  The  baseball,  re 
volving  as  it  flies,  may  suggest  the  orbs,  or  your 
girdle  suggest  the  equator,  or  the  wiping  of  your 
face  on  a  towel  suggest  the  absorption  of  the  rain 
by  the  soil;  but  does  the  blacking  of  your  shoes 
suggest  anything  celestial  ?  Hinges  and  levers  and 
fulcrums  are  significant,  but  one's  old  hat,  or 
old  boots,  have  not  much  poetic  significance.  An 
elm  tree  may  suggest  a  cathedral,  or  a  shell  sug- 
101 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

gest  the  rainbow,  or  the  sparkling  frost  suggest 
diamonds,  or  the  thread  that  holds  the  beads  sym 
bolize  the  law  that  strings  the  spheres,  but  a  button 
is  a  button,  a  shoestring  a  shoestring,  and  a  spade  a 
spade,  and  nothing  more. 

I  cherish  and  revere  the  name  of  Emerson  so 
profoundly,  and  owe  him  such  a  debt,  that  it  seems, 
after  all,  a  pity  to  point  out  the  flaws  in  his  pre 
cious  amber. 

Let  us  keep  alive  the  Emersonian  memories : 
that  such  a  man  has  lived  and  wrought  among  us. 
Let  us  teach  our  children  his  brave  and  heroic 
words,  and  plant  our  lives  upon  as  secure  an  ethi 
cal  foundation  as  he  did.  Let  us  make  pilgrimages 
to  Concord,  and  stand  with  uncovered  heads  be 
neath  the  pine  tree  where  his  ashes  rest.  He  left 
us  an  estate  in  the  fair  land  of  the  Ideal.  He  be 
queathed  us  treasures  that  thieves  cannot  break 
through  and  steal,  nor  time  corrupt,  nor  rust  nor 
moth  destroy.1 

1  At  the  onset  of  the  author's  last  illness  he  attempted  to  re 
arrange  and  improve  this  essay,  but  was  even  then  unequal  to 
it,  and,  after  a  little  shifting  and  editing,  gave  it  up.  "Do 
what  you  can  with  it,"  he  said;  and  when  I  asked  him  if  he 
could  not  add  a  few  words  to  close  it,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
wrote  the  closing  sentences,  which  proved  to  be  the  last  he 
ever  penned.  —  C.  B. 


102 


Ill 

ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 
I 

AFTER  Emerson,  the  name  of  no  New  England 
man  of  letters  keeps  greener  and  fresher  than  that 
of  Thoreau.  A  severe  censor  of  his  countrymen, 
and  with  few  elements  of  popularity,  yet  the  qual 
ity  of  his  thought,  the  sincerity  of  his  life,  and  the 
nearness  and  perennial  interest  of  his  themes,  as 
well  as  his  rare  powers  of  literary  expression,  win 
recruits  from  each  generation  of  readers.  He  does 
not  grow  stale  any  more  than  Walden  Pond  itself 
grows  stale.  He  is  an  obstinate  fact  there  in  New 
England  life  and  literature,  and  at  the  end  of  his 
first  centennial  his  fame  is  more  alive  than  ever. 

Thoreau  was  born  in  Concord,  Massachusetts, 
July,  1817,  and  passed  most  of  his  life  of  forty-five 
years  in  his  native  town,  minding  his  own  business, 
as  he  would  say,  which  consisted,  for  the  most  part, 
in  spending  at  least  the  half  of  each  day  in  the 
open  air,  winter  and  summer,  rain  and  shine,  and 
in  keeping  tab  upon  all  the  doings  of  wild  nature 
about  him  and  recording  his  observations  in  his 
Journal. 

103 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

The  two  race  strains  that  met  in  Thoreau,  the 
Scottish  and  the  French,  come  out  strongly  in  his 
life  and  character.  To  the  French  he  owes  his 
vivacity,  his  lucidity,  his  sense  of  style,  and  his 
passion  for  the  wild ;  for  the  French,  with  all  their 
urbanity  and  love  of  art,  turn  to  nature  very  eas 
ily.  To  the  Scot  he  is  indebted  more  for  his  char 
acter  than  for  his  intellect.  From  this  source  come 
his  contrariness,  his  combativeness,  his  grudg 
ing  acquiescence,  and  his  pronounced  mysticism. 
Thence  also  comes  his  genius  for  solitude.  The 
man  who  in  his  cabin  in  the  woods  has  a  good  deal 
of  company  "  especially  the  mornings  when  no 
body  calls,"  is  French  only  in  the  felicity  of  his 
expression.  But  there  is  much  in  Thoreau  that  is 
neither  Gallic  nor  Scottish,  but  pure  Thoreau. 

The  most  point-blank  and  authoritative  criti 
cism  within  my  knowledge  that  Thoreau  has 
received  at  the  hands  of  his  countrymen  came 
from  the  pen  of  Lowell  about  1864,  and  was  included 
in  "  My  Study  Windows."  It  has  all  the  profes 
sional  smartness  and  scholarly  qualities  which  usu 
ally  characterize  Lowell's  critical  essays.  Thoreau 
was  vulnerable,  both  as  an  observer  and  as  a  liter 
ary  craftsman,  and  Lowell  lets  him  off  pretty 
easily  —  too  easily  —  on  both  counts. 

The  flaws  he  found  in  his  nature  lore  were  very 
inconsiderable :  "  Till  he  built  his  Waldcn  shack 
he  did  not  know  that  the  hickory  grew  near  Con- 
104 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

cord.  Till  he  went  to  Maine  he  had  never  seen 
phosphorescent  wood  —  a  phenomenon  early  fa 
miliar  to  most  country  boys.  At  forty  he  spoke 
of  the  seeding  [i.  e.,  flowering]1  of  the  pine  as  a  new 
discovery,  though  one  should  have  thought  that 
its  gold-dust  of  blowing  pollen  might  have  earlier 
caught  his  eye." 

As  regards  his  literary  craftsmanship,  Lowell 
charges  him  only  with  having  revived  the  age  of 
concetti  while  he  fancied  himself  going  back  to  a 
preclassical  nature,  basing  the  charge  on  such  a 
far-fetched  comparison  as  that  in  which  Thoreau 
declares  his  preference  for  "  the  dry  wit  of  decayed 
cranberry-vines  and  the  fresh  Attic  salt  of  the 
moss-beds  "  over  the  wit  of  the  Greek  sages  as  it 
comes  to  us  in  the  "  Banquet "  of  Xenophon  —  a 
kind  of  perversity  of  comparison  all  too  frequent 
with  Thoreau. 

But  though  Lowell  lets  Thoreau  off  easily  on 
these  specific  counts,  he  more  than  makes  up  by 
his  sweeping  criticism,  on  more  general  grounds, 
of  his  life  and  character.  Here  one  feels  that  he 
overdoes  the  matter. 

It  is  not  true,  in  the  sense  which  Lowell  implies, 
that  Thoreau's  whole  life  was  a  search  for  the  doc 
tor.  It  was  such  a  search  in  no  other  sense  than 
that  we  are  all  in  search  of  the  doctor  when  we  take 

1  See  "  Walking  "  in  Excursions.  He  was  under  thirty-three 
when  he  made  these  observations  (June,  1850). 

105 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

a  walk,  or  flee  to  the  mountains  or  to  the  seashore, 
or  seek  to  bring  our  minds  and  spirits  in  contact 
with  "  Nature's  primal  sanities."  His  search  for 
the  doctor  turns  out  to  be  an  escape  from  the  con 
ditions  that  make  a  doctor  necessary.  His  won 
derful  activity,  those  long  walks  in  all  weathers, 
in  all  seasons,  by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  drenched 
by  rain  and  chilled  by  frost,  suggest  a  reckless  kind 
of  health.  A  doctor  might  wisely  have  cautioned 
him  against  such  exposures.  Nor  was  Thoreau  a 
valetudinarian  in  his  physical,  moral,  or  intel 
lectual  fiber. 

It  is  not  true,  as  Lowell  charges,  that  it  was  his 
indolence  that  stood  in  the  way  of  his  taking  part 
in  the  industrial  activities  in  which  his  friends  and 
neighbors  engaged,  or  that  it  was  his  lack  of  per 
sistence  and  purpose  that  hindered  him.  It  is  not 
true  that  he  was  poor  because  he  looked  upon 
money  as  an  unmixed  evil.  Thoreau's  purpose 
was  like  adamant,  and  his  industry  in  his  own  proper 
pursuits  was  tireless.  He  knew  the  true  value 
of  money,  and  he  knew  also  that  the  best  things 
in  life  are  to  be  had  without  money  and  without 
price.  When  he  had  need  of  money,  he  earned 
it.  He  turned  his  hand  to  many  things  —  land- 
surveying,  lecturing,  magazine-writing,  growing 
white  beans,  doing  odd  jobs  at  carpentering, 
whitewashing,  fence-building,  plastering,  and  brick 
laying. 

106 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

Lowell's  criticism  amounts  almost  to  a  diatribe. 
He  was  naturally  antagonistic  to  the  Thoreau  type 
of  mind.  Coming  from  a  man  near  his  own  age, 
and  a  neighbor,  Thoreau's  criticism  of  life  was  an 
affront  to  the  smug  respectability  and  scholarly 
attainments  of  the  class  to  which  Lowell  belonged. 
Thoreau  went  his  own  way,  with  an  air  of  defiance 
and  contempt  which,  no  doubt,  his  contemporaries 
were  more  inclined  to  resent  than  we  are  at  our 
distance.  Shall  this  man  in  his  hut  on  the  shores 
of  Walden  Pond  assume  to  lay  down  the  law  and 
the  gospel  to  his  elders  and  betters,  and  pass  un- 
rebuked,  no  matter  on  what  intimate  terms  he 
claims  to  be  with  the  gods  of  the  woods  and  moun 
tains  ?  This  seems  to  be  Lowell's  spirit. 

"  Thoreau's  experiment,"  says  Lowell,  "  actu 
ally  presupposed  all  that  complicated  civilization 
which  it  theoretically  abjured.  He  squatted  on 
another  man's  land ;  he  borrows  an  axe ;  his  boards, 
his  nails,  his  bricks,  his  mortar,  his  books,  his  lamp, 
his  fish-hooks,  his  plough,  his  hoe,  all  turn  state's 
evidence  against  him  as  an  accomplice  in  the  sin 
of  that  artificial  civilization  which  rendered  it 
possible  that  such  a  person  as  Henry  D.  Thoreau 
should  exist  at  all."  Very  clever,  but  what  of  it  ? 
Of  course  Thoreau  was  a  product  of  the  civilization 
he  decried.  He  was  a  product  of  his  country  and 
his  times.  He  was  born  in  Concord  and  early  came 
under  the  influence  of  Emerson ;  he  was  a  graduate 
107 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

of  Harvard  University  and  all  his  life  availed  him 
self,  more  or  less,  of  the  accumulated  benefits  of  state 
and  social  organizations.  When  he  took  a  train  to 
Boston,  or  dropped  a  letter  in,  or  received  one 
through,  the  post  office,  or  read  a  book,  or  visited 
a  library,  or  looked  in  a  newspaper,  he  was  a  sharer 
in  these  benefits.  He  made  no  claims  to  living  in 
dependently  of  the  rest  of  mankind.  His  only 
aim  in  his  Walden  experiment  was  to  reduce  life  to 
jts  lowest  terms,  to  olriye  it  into  a  corner,  as  he  said, 
jind  questiop  a  nj_prn.s.s-  question  it, 


could,  what  it  really  meant.  And  he  probably 
came  as  near  cornering  it  there  in  his  hut  on  Walden 
Pond  as  any  man  ever  did  anywhere,  certainly  in  a 
way  more  pleasing  to  contemplate  than  did  the  old 
hermits  in  the  desert,  or  than  did  Diogenes  in  his 
tub,  though  Lowell  says  the  tub  of  the  old  Greek 
had  a  sounder  bottom. 

Lowell  seemed  to  discredit  Thoreau  by  attack 
ing  his  philosophy  and  pointing  out  the  contra 
dictions  and  inconsistencies  of  a  man  who  abjures 
the  civilization  of  which  he  is  the  product,  over 
looking  the  fact  that  man's  theories  and  specula 
tions  may  be  very  wide  of  the  truth  as  we  view  it, 
and  yet  his  life  be  noble  and  inspiring.  Now 
Thoreau  did  not  give  us  a  philosophy,  but  a  life. 
He  gave  us  fresh  and  beautiful  literature,  he  gave 
us  our  first  and  probably  only  nature  classic,  he 
gave  us  an  example  of  plain  living  and  high  think- 
108 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

)ing  that  is  always  in  season,  and  he  took  upon  him 
self  that  kind  of  noble  poverty  that  carries  the 
\  suggestion  of  wealth  of  soul. 

No  matter  how  much  Thoreau  abjured  our  civ 
ilization,  he  certainly  made  good  use  of  the  weap 
ons  it  gave  him.  No  matter  whose  lands  he 
squatted  on,  or  whose  saw  he  borrowed,  or  to  whom 
or  what  he  was  indebted  for  the  tools  and  utensils 
that  made  his  life  at  Walden  possible,  —  these 
things  were  the  mere  accidents  of  his  environment, 
—  he  left  a  record  of  his  life  and  thoughts  there 
which  is  a  precious  heritage  to  his  countrymen. 
The  best  in  his  books  ranks  with  the  best  in  the 
literature  of  his  times.  One  could  wish  that  he 
had  shown  more  tolerance  for  the  things  other  men 
live  for,  but  this  must  not  make  us  overlook  the 
value  of  the  things  he  himself  lived  for,  though  with 
some  of  his  readers  his  intolerance  doubtless  has 
this  effect.  We  cannot  all  take  to  the  woods  and 
swamps  as  Thoreau  did.  He  had  a  genius  for  that 
kind  of  a  life;  the  most  of  us  must  stick  to  our 
farms  and  desks  and  shops  and  professions. 

Thoreau  retired  to  Walden  for  study  and  con 
templation,  and  because,  as  he  said,  he  had  a  little 
private  business  with  himself.  He  found  that  by 
working  about  six  weeks  in  the  year  he  could  meet 
all  his  living  expenses,  and  then  have  all  his  winter 
and  most  of  his  summers  free  and  clear  for  study. 
He  found  that  to  maintain  one's  self  on  this  earth 
109 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

is  not  a  hardship,  but  a  pastime,  if  one  will  live 
simply  and  wisely.  He  said,  "It  is  not  necessary 
that  a  man  should  earn  his  living  by  the  sweat  of 
his  brow  unless  he  sweats  easier  than  I  do."  Was 
not  his  experiment  worth  while  ? 

"Walden"  is  a  wonderful  and  delightful  piece  of 
brag,  but  it  is  much  more  than  that.  It  is  litera 
ture  ;  it  is  a  Gospel  of  the  Wild.  It  made  a  small 
Massachusetts  pond  famous,  and  the  Mecca  of 
many  devout  pilgrims. 

Lowell  says  that  Thoreau  had  no  humor,  but 
there  are  many  pages  in  "  Walden "  that  are 
steeped  in  a  quiet  but  most  delicious  humor.  His 
humor  brings  that  inward  smile  which  is  the  badge 
of  art's  felicity.  His  "  Bean-Field  "  is  full  of  it. 
I  venture  to  say  that  never  before  had  a  hermit 
so  much  fun  with  a  field  of  white  beans. 

Both  by  training  and  by  temperament  Lowell  was 
disqualified  from  entering  into  Thoreau's  character 
and  aims.  Lowell's  passion  for  books  and  aca 
demic  accomplishments  was  as  strong  as  was  Tho 
reau's  passion  for  the  wild  and  for  the  religion  of 
Nature.  When  Lowell  went  to  Nature  for  a  theme, 
as  in  his  "  Good  Word  for  Winter,"  his  "  My  Gar 
den  Acquaintance,"  and  the  "  Moosehead  Jour 
nal,"  his  use  of  it  was  mainly  to  unlock  the  treas 
ures  of  his  literary  and  scholarly  attainments ;  he 
bedecked  and  bejeweled  Nature  with  gems  from 
all  the  literatures  of  the  world.  In  the  "  Journal  " 
110 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

we  get  more  of  the  flavor  of  libraries  than  of  the 
Maine  woods  and  waters.  No  reader  of  Lowell 
can  doubt  that  he  was  a  nature-lover,  nor  can  he 
doubt  that  he  loved  books  and  libraries  more.  In 
all  hisjiature  writings  the  poverty  of  the  substance 
and  the  wealth  of  the  treatment  are  striking.  The 
final  truth  about  Lowell's  contributions  is  that 
his  mind  was  essentially  a  prose  mind,  even  when 
he  writes  poetry.  Emerson  said  justly  that  his 
tone  was  always  that  of  prose.  What  is  his  "  Ca 
thedral  "  but  versified  prose  ?  Like  so  many  cul 
tivated  men,  he  showed  a  talent  for  poetry,  but 
not  genius ;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  one  may  say  of 
Emerson  that  he  showed  more  genius  for  poetry 
than  talent,  his  inspiration  surpassed  his  tech 
nical  skill. 

One  is  not  surprised  when  he  finds  that  John 
Brown  was  one  of  Thoreau's  heroes ;  he  was  a  sort 
of  John  Brown  himself  in  another  sphere ;  but  one 
is  surprised  when  one  finds  him  so  heartily  approv 
ing  of  Walt  Whitman  and  traveling  to  Brooklyn 
to  look  upon  him  and  hear  his  voice.  He  recog 
nized  at  once  the  tremendous  significance  of  Whit 
man  and  the  power  of  his  poetry.  He  called  him 
the  greatest  democrat  which  the  world  had  yet 
seen.  With  all  his  asceticism  and  his  idealism, 
he  was  not  troubled  at  all  with  those  things  in 
Whitman  that  are  a  stumbling-block  to  so  many 
persons.  Evidently  his  long  intercourse  with 
111 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Nature  had  prepared  him  for  the  primitive  and 
elemental  character  of  Whitman's  work.  No 
doubt  also  his  familiarity  with  the  great  poems 
and  sacred  books  of  the  East  helped  him.  At  any 
rate,  in  this  respect,  his  endorsement  of  Whitman 
adds  greatly  to  our  conception  of  the  mental  and 
spiritual  stature  of  Thoreau. 

I  can  hold  my  criticism  in  the  back  of  my  head 
while  I  say  with  my  forehead  that  all  our  other 
nature  writers  seem  tame  and  insipid  beside  Tho 
reau.  He  was  so  much  more  than  a  mere  student 
and  observer  of  nature;  and  it  is  this  surplusage 
which  gives  the  extra  weight  and  value  to  his  na 
ture  writing.  He  was  a  critic  of  life,  he  was  a 
iteraryJ^rce  that  made  for  plamliving  and  high 
thinking.  His  nature  lore  was  an  asTo!?;  he  gath 
ered  it  as  the  meditative  saunterer  gathers  a 
leaf,  or  a  flower,  or  a  shell  on  the  beach,  while  he 
ponders  on  higher  things.  He  had  other  business 
with  the  gods  of  the  woods  than  taking  an  inven 
tory  of  their  wares.  He  was  a  dreamer,  an  idealist^ 
a  fervid  ethical  teacher,  seeking  inspiration  in  the 
fields  and  woods.  The  hound,  the  turtle-dove, 
and  the  bay  horse  which  he  said  he  had  lost,  and 
for  whose  trail  he  was  constantly  seeking,  typi 
fied  his  interest  in  wild  nature.  The  natural  his 
tory  in  his  books  is  quite  secondary.  The  natural 
or  supernatural  history  of  his  own  thought  absorbed 
112 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

him  more  than  the  exact  facts  about  the  wild  life 
around  him.  He  brings  us  a  gospel  more  than 
he  brings  us  a  history.  His  science  is  only  the 
handmaid  of  his  ethics;  his  wood-lore  is  the  foil 
of  his  moral  and  intellectual  teachings.  His  ob 
servations  are  frequently  at  fault,  or  wholly  wide 
of  the  mark;  but  the  flower  or  specimen  that  he 
brings  you  always  "  comes  laden  with  a  thought." 
There  is  a  tang  and  a  pungency  to  nearly  every 
thing  he  published;  the  personal  quality  which 
flavors  it  is  like  the  formic  acid  which  the  bee 
infuses  into  the  nectar  he  gets  from  the  flower,  and 
which  makes  it  honey. 

I  feel  that  some  such  statement  about  Thoreau 
should  precede  or  go  along  with  any  criticism  of 
him  as  a  writer  or  as  an  observer.  He  was,  first 
and  last,  a  moral  force  speaking  in  the  terms  of  the 
literary  naturalist. 

Thoreau's  prayer  in  one  of  his  poems  —  that 
he  might  greatly  disappoint  his  friends  —  seems 
to  have  been  answered.  While  his  acquaintances 
went  into  trade  or  the  professions,  he  cast  about 
to  see  what  he  could  do  to  earn  his  living  and  still 
be  true  to  the  call  of  his  genius.  In  his  Journal 
of  1851  he  says :  "  While  formerly  I  was  looking 
about  to  see  what  I  could  do  for  a  living,  some  sad 
experiences  in  conforming  to  the  wishes  of  friends 
being  fresh  in  my  mind  to  tax  my  ingenuity,  I 
thought  often  and  seriously  of  picking  huckleber- 
113 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

ries ;  that  surely  I  could  do,  and  its  small  profits 
might  suffice,  so  little  capital  is  required,  so  little 
distraction  from  my  wonted  thoughts."  He  could 
range  the  hills  in  summer  and  still  look  after  the 
flocks  of  King  Admetus.  He  also  dreamed  that 
he  might  gather  the  wild  herbs  and  carry  ever 
greens  to  such  villagers  as  loved  to  be  reminded  of 
the  woods.  But  he  soon  learned  that  trade  cursed 
everything,  and  that  "  though  you  trade  in  mes 
sages  from  heaven,  the  whole  curse  of  trade  at 
taches  to  the  business."  The  nearest  his  con 
science  would  allow  him  to  approach  any  kind  of 
trade  was  to  offer  himself  to  his  townsmen  as  a 
land-surveyor.  This  would  take  him  to  the  places 
where  he  liked  to  be ;  he  could  still  walk  in  the 
fields  and  woods  and  swamps  and  earn  his  living 
thereby.  The  chain  and  compass  became  him 
well,  quite  as  well  as  his  bean-field  at  Walden,  and 
the  little  money  they  brought  him  was  not  en 
tirely  sordid. 

In  one  of  his  happy  moods  in  "  Walden"  he 
sets  down  in  a  half-facetious,  half-mystical,  but 
wholly  delightful  way,  his  various  avocations, 
such  as  his  self-appointment  as  inspector  of  snow 
storms  and  rain-storms,  and  surveyor  of  forest 
paths  and  all  across-lot  routes,  and  herdsman  of 
the  wild  stock  of  the  town.  He  is  never  more  en 
joyable  than  in  such  passages.  His  account  of 
going  into  business  at  Walden  Pond  is  in  the  same 
114 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

happy  vein.  As  his  fellow  citizens  were  slow  in 
offering  him  any  opening  in  which  he  could  earn 
a  living,  he  turned  to  the  woods,  where  he  was  bet 
ter  known,  and  determined  to  go  into  business  at 
once  without  waiting  to  acquire  the  usual  capital. 
He  expected  to  open  trade  with  the  Celestial 
Empire,  and  Walden  was  just  the  place  to  start 
the  venture.  He  thought  his  strict  business 
habits  acquired  through  years  of  keeping  tab  on 
wild  Nature's  doings,  his  winter  days  spent  out 
side  the  town,  trying  to  hear  what  was  in  the  wind, 
and  his  early  spring  mornings  before  his  neighbors 
were  astir  to  hear  the  croak  of  the  first  frog,  all 
the  training  necessary  to  ensure  success  in  business 
with  the  Celestial  Empire.  He  admits,  it  is  true, 
that  he  never  assisted  the  sun  materially  in  his 
rising,  but  doubted  not  that  it  was  of  the  last  im 
portance  only  to  be  present  at  it.  All  such  fool 
ing  as  this  is  truly  delightful.  When  he  goes  about 
his  sylvan  business  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek 
and  a  quizzical,  good-humored  look  upon  his  face 
in  this  way,  and  advertises  the  hound,  the  bay 
horse,  and  the  turtle-dove  he  lost  so  long  ago, 
he  is  the  true  Thoreau,  and  we  take  him  to  our 
hearts. 

One  also  enjoys  the  way  in  which  he  magnifies 
his  petty  occupations.  His  brag  over  his  bean- 
field  is  delightful.  He  makes  one  want  to  hoe 
beans  with  him : 

115 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

When  my  hoe  tinkled  against  the  stones,  that  music 
echoed  to  the  woods  and  the  sky  and  was  an  accompani 
ment  to  my  labor  which  yielded  an  instant  and  im 
measurable  crop.  It  was  no  longer  beans  that  I  hoed, 
nor  I  that  hoed  beans  ;  and  I  remembered  with  as  much 
pity  as  pride,  if  I  remembered  at  all,  my  acquaintances 
who  had  gone  to  the  city  to  attend  the  oratorios.  The 
nighthawk  circled  overhead  in  the  sunny  afternoons  — 
for  I  sometimes  made  a  day  of  it  —  like  a  mote  in  the 
eye,  or  in  heaven's  eye,  falling  from  time  to  time  with 
a  swoop  and  a  sound  as  if  the  heavens  were  rent,  torn 
at  last  to  very  rags  and  tatters,  and  yet  a  seamless  cope 
remained ;  small  imps  that  fill  the  air  and  lay  their  eggs 
on  the  ground  on  bare  sand  or  rocks  on  the  top  of  hills, 
where  few  have  found  them;  graceful  and  slender  like 
ripples  caught  up  from  the  pond,  as  leaves  are  raised 
by  the  wind  to  float  in  the  heavens ;  such  kindredship 
is  in  nature.  The  hawk  is  aerial  brother  of  the  wave 
which  he  sails  over  and  surveys,  those  his  perfect  air- 
inflated  wings  answering  to  the  elemental  unfledged 
pinions  of  the  sea.  Or  sometimes  I  watched  a  pair  of 
hen-hawks  circling  high  in  the  sky,  alternately  soaring 
and  descending,  approaching  and  leaving  one  another, 
as  if  they  were  the  embodiment  of  my  own  thoughts. 
Or  I  was  attracted  by  the  passage  of  wild  pigeons  from 
this  wood  to  that,  with  a  slight  quivering  winnowing 
sound  and  carrier  haste ;  or  from  under  a  rotten  stump 
my  hoe  turned  up  a  sluggish  portentous  and  outlandish 
salamander,  a  trace  of  Egypt  and  the  Nile,  yet  our  con 
temporary.  When  I  paused  to  lean  on  my  hoe,  these 
sounds  and  sights  I  heard  and  saw  anywhere  in  the 
row,  a  part  of  the  inexhaustible  entertainment  which 
the  country  offers. 

All  this  is  in  his  best  style.     Who,  after  reading 
it,  does  not  long  for  a  bean-field  ?     In  planting  it, 
too  what  music  attends  him  ! 
116 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

Near  at  hand,  upon  the  topmost  spray  of  a  birch, 
sings  the  brown  thrasher  —  or  red  mavis,  as  some  love 
to  call  him  —  all  the  morning,  glad  of  your  society, 
that  would  find  out  another  farmer's  field  if  yours 
were  not  here.  While  you  are  planting  the  seed  he 
cries,  —  "Drop  it,  drop  it,  —  cover  it  up,  cover  it 
up,  —  pull  it  up,  pull  it  up,  pull  it  up."  But  this  was 
not  corn,  and  so  it  was  safe  from  such  enemies 
as  he.  You  may  wonder  what  his  rigmarole,  his 
amateur  Paganini  performances  on  one  string  or  on 
twenty,  have  to  do  with  your  planting,  and  yet  prefer 
it  to  leached  ashes  or  plaster.  It  was  a  cheap  sort  of 
top  dressing  in  which  I  had  entire  faith. 

What  lessons  he  got  in  botany  in  the  hoeing ! 

Consider  the  intimate  and  curious  acquaintance  one 
makes  with  various  kinds  of  weeds,  —  it  will  bear  some 
iteration  in  the  account,  for  there  was  no  little  iteration 
in  the  labor,  —  disturbing  their  delicate  organizations 
so  ruthlessly,  and  making  such  invidious  distinctions 
with  his  hoe,  levelling  whole  ranks  of  one  species,  and 
sedulously  cultivating  another.  That 's  Roman  worm 
wood,  —  that's  pigweed,  —  that's  sorrel,  —  that's 
pipergrass,  —  have  at  him,  chop  him  up,  turn  his  roots 
upward  to  the  sun,  don't  let  him  have  a  fibre  in  the 
shade,  if  you  do  he  '11  turn  himself  t'  other  side  up  and 
be  as  green  as  a  leek  in  two  days.  A  long  war,  not  with 
cranes,  but  with  weeds,  those  Trojans  who  had  sun  and 
rain  and  dews  on  their  side.  Daily  the  beans  saw  me 
come  to  their  rescue  armed  with  a  hoe,  and  thin  the 
ranks  of  their  enemies,  filling  up  the  trenches  with  weedy 
dead.  Many  a  lusty  crest-waving  Hector,  that  towered 
a  whole  foot  above  his  crowding  comrades,  fell  before 
my  weapon  and  rolled  in  the  dust. 

I  have  occasional  visits  in  the  long  winter  evenings, 
when  the  snow  falls  fast  and  the  wind  howls  in  the 
wood,  from  an  old  settler  and  original  proprietor,  who 

117 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

is  reported  to  have  dug  Walden  Pond,  and  stoned  it, 
and  fringed  it  with  pine  woods ;  who  tells  me  stories  of 
old  time  and  of  new  eternity ;  and  between  us  we  man 
age  to  pass  a  cheerful  evening  with  social  mirth  and 
pleasant  views  of  things,  even  without  apples  or  cider, 
—  a  most  wise  and  humorous  friend,  whom  I  love  much, 
who  keeps  himself  more  secret  than  ever  did  Goffe  or 
Whalley;  and  though  he  is  thought  to  be  dead,  none 
can  show  where  he  is  buried.  An  elderly  dame,  too, 
dwells  in  my  neighborhood,  invisible  to  most  persons, 
in  whose  odorous  herb  garden  I  love  to  stroll  sometimes, 
gathering  simples  and  listening  to  her  fables ;  for  she 
has  a  genius  of  unequalled  fertility,  and  her  memory 
runs  back  farther  than  mythology,  and  she  can  tell  me 
the  original  of  every  fable,  and  on  what  fact  every  one 
is  founded,  for  the  incidents  occurred  when  she  was 
young.  A  ruddy  and  lusty  old  dame,  who  delights  in 
all  weathers  and  seasons,  and  is  likely  to  outlive  all  her 
children  yet. 

Thoreau  taxed  himself  to  find  words  and  images 
strong  enough  to  express  his  aversion  to  the  lives 
of  the  men  who  were  "  engaged  "  in  the  various  in 
dustrial  fields  about  him.  Everywhere  in  shops 
and  offices  and  fields  it  appeared  to  him  that  his 
neighbors  were  doing  penance  in  a  thousand  re 
markable  ways : 

What  I  have  heard  of  Bramins  sitting  exposed  to 
four  fires  and  looking  in  the  face  of  the  sun ;  or  hang 
ing  suspended,  with  their  heads  downward,  over  flames ; 
or  looking  at  the  heavens  over  their  shoulders  "  until  it 
becomes  impossible  for  them  to  resume  their  natural 
position,  while  from  the  twist  of  the  neck  nothing  but 

'    liquids  can  pass  into  the  stomach"  ;  or  dwelling,  chained 
for  life,  at  the  foot  of  a  tree ;   or  measuring  with  their 

m  bodies,  like  caterpillars,  the  breadth  of  vast  empires; 
'  118 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

or  standing  on  one  leg  on  the  tops  of  pillars,  —  even 
these  forms  of  conscious  penance  are  hardly  more  in 
credible  and  astonishing  than  the  scenes  which  I  daily 
witness.  ...  I  see  young  men,  my  townsmen,  whose 
misfortune  it  is  to  have  inherited  farms,  houses,  barns, 
cattle,  and  farming  tools ;  for  these  are  more  easily  ac 
quired  than  got  rid  of. 

Surely  this  disciple  of  the  Gospel  of  the  Wild  must 
have  disappointed  his  friends.  It  was  this  auda 
cious  gift  which  Thoreau  had  for  making  worldly 
possessions  seem  ignoble,  that  gives  the  tang  to 
many  pages  of  his  writings. 

Thoreau  became  a  great  traveler  —  in  Concord, 
as  he  says  —  and  made  Walden  Pond  famous  in 
our  literature  by  spending  two  or  more  years  in 
the  woods  upon  its  shore,  and  writing  an  account 
of  his  sojourn  there  which  has  become  a  nature 
classic.  He  was  a  poet-naturalist,  as  his  friend 
Channing  aptly  called  him,  of  untiring  industry, 
and  the  country  in  a  radius  of  seven  or  eight  miles 
about  Concord  was  threaded  by  him  in  all  seasons 
as  probably  no  other  section  of  New  England  was 
ever  threaded  and  scrutinized  by  any  one  man. 
Walking  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  recording 
what  he  saw  and  heard  and  thought  in  his  Jour 
nal,  became  the  business  of  his  life.  He  went  over 
the  same  ground  endlessly,  but  always  brought 
back  new  facts,  or  new  impressions,  because  he  was 
so  sensitive  to  all  the  changing  features  of  the  day 
and  the  season  in  the  landscape  about  him. 
119 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Once  he  extended  his  walking  as  far  as  Quebec, 
Canada,  and  once  he  took  in  the  whole  of  Cape 
Cod ;  three  or  four  times  he  made  excursions  to 
the  Maine  woods,  the  result  of  which  gave  the 
name  to  one  of  his  most  characteristic  volumes ; 
but  as  habitually  as  the  coming  of  the  day  was  he 
a  walker  about  Concord,  in  all  seasons,  primarily 
for  companionship  with  untamed  Nature,  and 
secondarily  as  a  gleaner  in  the  fields  of  natural 
history. 


THOREAU  was  not  a  great  philosopher,  he  was  not 
a  great  naturalist,  he  was  not  a  great  poet,  but  as 
a  nature-writer  and  an  original  character  he  is 
unique  in  our  literature.  His  philosophy  begins 
and  ends  with  himself,  or  is  entirely  subjective, 
and  is  frequently  fantastic,  and  nearly  always  il 
logical.  His  poetry  is  of  the  oracular  kind,  and 
is  only  now  and  then  worth  attention.  There  are 
crudities  in  his  writings  that  make  the  conscien 
tious  literary  craftsman  shudder;  there  are  mis 
takes  of  observation  that  make  the  serious  natural 
ist  wonder;  and  there  is  often  an  expression  of 
contempt  for  his  fellow  countrymen,  and  the  rest 
of  mankind,  and  their  aims  in  life,  that  makes  the 
judicious  grieve.  But  at  his  best  there  is  a  gay 
symbolism,  a  felicity  of  description,  and  a  freshness 
of  observation  that  delight  all  readers. 
120 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

As  a  person  he  gave  himself  to  others  reluc 
tantly  ;  he  was,  in  truth,  a  recluse.  He  stood  for 
character  more  than  for  intellect,  and  for  intuition 
more  than  for  reason.  He  was  often  contrary  and 
inconsistent.  There  was  more  crust  than  crumb 
in  the  loaf  he  gave  us. 

He  went  about  the  business  of  living  with  his 
head  in  the  clouds,  or  with  an  absolute  devotion 
to  the  ideal  that  is  certainly  rare  in  our  literary 
history.  He  declared  that  he  aimed  to  crow  like 
chanticleer  in  the  morning,  if  only  to  wake  his 
neighbors  up.  Much  of  his  writings  have  this 
chanticleerian  character;  they  are  a  call  to  wake 
up,  to  rub  the  film  from  one's  eyes,  and  see  the 
real  values  ofjife.  To  this  end  he  prods  with  par 
adoxes,  he  belabors  with  hyperboles,  he  teases  with 
irony,  he  startles  with  the  unexpected.  He  finds 
poverty  more  attractive  than  riches,  solitude  more 
welcome  than  society,  a  sphagnum  swamp  more  to 
be  desired  than  a  flowered  field. 

Thoreau  is  suggestive  of  those  antibodies  which 
modern  science  makes  so  much  of.  He  tends  to 
fortify  us  against  the  dry  rot  of  business,  the  se 
ductions  of  social  pleasures,  the  pride  of  wealth 
and  position.  He  is  antitoxic;  he  is  a  literary 
germicide  of  peculiar  power.  He  is  too  religious 
to  go  to  church,  too  patriotic  to  pay  his  taxes,  too 
fervent  a  humanist  to  interest  himself  in  the  social 
welfare  of  his  neighborhood. 
121 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Thoreau  called  himself  a  mystic,  and  a  tran- 
scendentalist,  and  a  natural  philosopher  to  boot. 
But  the  least  of  these  was  the  natural  philosopher. 
He  did  not  have  the  philosophic  mind,  nor  the 
scientific  mind ;  he  did  not  inquire  into  the  reason 
of  things,  nor  the  meaning  of  things ;  in  fact,  had 
no  disinterested  interest  in  the  universe  apart 
from  himself.  He  was  too  personal  and  illogical 
for  a  philosopher.  The  scientific  interpretation  of 
things  did  not  interest  him  at  all.  He  was  inter 
ested  in  things  only  so  far  as  they  related  to  Henry 
Thoreau.  He  interpreted  Nature  entirely  in  the 
light  of  his  own  idiosyncrasies. 

Science  goes  its  own  way  in  spite  of  our  likes 
and  dislikes,  but  Thoreau's  likes  and  dislikes  de 
termined  everything  for  him.  He  was  stoical, 
but  not  philosophical.  His  intellect  had  no  free 
play  outside  his  individual  predilection.  Truth 
as  philosophers  use  the  term,  was  not  his  quest 
but  truth  made  in  Concord. 

Thoreau  writes  that  when  he  was  once  asked  by 
the  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science 
what  branch  of  science  he  was  especially  interested 
in,  he  did  not  reply  because  he  did  not  want  to 
make  himself  the  laughing-stock  of  the  scientific 
community,  which  did  not  believe  in  a  science 
which  deals  with  the  higher  law  —  his  higher  law, 
which  bears  the  stamp  of  Henry  Thoreau. 

He  was  an  individualist  of  the  most  pronounced 
122 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

type.  The  penalty  of  this  type  of  mind  is  nar 
rowness  ;  the  advantage  is  the  personal  flavor 
imparted  to  the  written  page.  Thoreau's  books 
contain  plenty  of  the  pepper  and  salt  of  character 
and  contrariness;  even  their  savor  of  whim  and 
prejudice  adds  to  their  literary  tang.  When  his 
individualism  becomes  aggressive  egotism,  as  often 
happens,  it  is  irritating;  but  when  it  gives  only 
that  pungent  and  personal  flavor  which  pervades 
much  of  "  Walden,"  it  is  very  welcome. 

Thoreau's  critics  justly  aver  that  he  severely 
arraigns  his  countrymen  because  they  are  not  all 
Thoreaus  —  that  they  do  not  desert  their  farms 
and  desks  and  shops  and  take  to  the  woods.  What 
unmeasured  contempt  he  pours  out  upon  the  lives 
and  ambitions  of  most  of  them !  Need  a  nature- 
lover,  it  is  urged,  necessarily  be  a  man-hater?  Is 
not  man  a  part  of  nature  ?  —  averaging  up  quite 
as  good  as  the  total  scheme  of  things  out  of  which 
he  came?  Cannot  his  vices  and  shortcomings  be 
matched  by  a  thousand  cruel  and  abortive  things 
in  the  fields  and  the  woods  ?  The  fountain  cannot 
rise  above  its  source,  and  man  is  as  good  as  is  the 
nature  out  of  which  he  came,  and  of  which  he  is  a 
part.  Most  of  Thoreau's  harsh  judgments  upon 
his  neighbors  and  countrymen  are  only  his  extreme 
individualism  gone  to  seed. 

An  extremist  he  always  was.  Extreme  views 
commended  themselves  to  him  because  they  were 
123 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

extreme.  His  aim  in  writing  was  usually  "  to 
make  an  extreme  statement."  He  left  the  middle 
ground  to  the  school  committees  and  trustees.  He 
had  in  him  the  stuff  of  which  martyrs  and  heroes 
are  made.  In  John  Brown  he  recognized  a  kin 
dred  soul.  But  his  literary  bent  \ed  him  to  take 
his  own  revolutionary  impulses  out  in  words.  The 
closest  he  came  to  imitation  of  the  hero  of  Harper's 
Ferry  and  to  defying  the  Government  was  on  one 
occasion  when  he  refused  to  pay  his  poll-tax  and 
thus  got  himself  locked  in  jail  overnight.  It  all 
seems  a  petty  and  ignoble  ending  of  his  fierce  de 
nunciation  of  politics  and  government,  but  it  no 
doubt  helped  to  satisfy  his  imagination,  which  so 
tyrannized  over  him  throughout  life.  He  could 
endure  offenses  against  his  heart  and  conscience 
and  reason  easier  than  against  his  imagination. 
)  He  presents  that  curious  phenomenon  of  a  man 
'who  is  an  extreme  product  of  culture  and  civiliza- 
I  tion,  and  yet  who  so  hungers  and  thirsts  for  the 
I  wild  and  the  primitive  that  he  is  unfair  to  the 
I  forces  and  conditions  out  of  which  he  came,  and  by 
which  he  is  at  all  times  nourished  and  upheld.  He 
made  his  excursions  into  the  Maine  wilderness 
and  lived  in  his  hut  by  Walden  Pond  as  a  scholar 
and  philosopher,  and  not  at  all  in  the  spirit  of  the 
lumbermen  and  sportsmen  whose  wildness  he  so 
much  admired.  It  was  from  his  vantage-ground 
of  culture  and  of  Concord  transcendentalism  that 
124 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

he  appraised  all  these  types.  It  was  from  a  com 
munity  built  up  and  sustained  by  the  common 
industries  and  the  love  of  gain  that  he  decried  all 
these  things.  It  was  .from  a  town  and  a  civiliza 
tion  that  owed  much  to  the  pine  tree  that  he 
launched  his  diatribe  against  the  lumbermen  in 
the  Maine  woods :  "  The  pine  is  no  more  lumber 
than  man  is;  and  to  be  made  into  boards  and 
houses  no  more  its  true  and  highest  use  than  the 
truest  use  of  man  is  to  be  cut  down  and  made  into 
manure."  Not  a  happy  comparison,  but  no  matter. 
If  the  pine  tree  had  not  been  cut  down  and  made 
into  lumber,  it  is  quite  certain  that  Thoreau  would 
never  have  got  to  the  Maine  woods  to  utter  this 
protest,  just  as  it  is  equally  certain  that  had  he 
not  been  a  member  of  a  thrifty  and  industrious 
community,  and  kept  his  hold  upon  it,  he  could 
not  have  made  his  Walden  experiment  of  toying 
and  coquetting  with  the  wild  and  the  non-indus 
trial.  His  occupations  as  land-surveyor,  lyceum 
lecturer,  and  magazine  writer  attest  how  much  he 
owed  to  the  civilization  he  was  so  fond  of  decrying. 
This  is  Thoreau's  weakness  —  the  half-truths  in 
which  he  plumes  himself,  as  if  they  were  the  whole 
law  and  gospel.  His  Walden  bean-field  was  only 
a  pretty  piece  of  play-acting;  he  cared  more  for 
the  ringing  of  his  hoe  upon  the  stones  than  for  the 
beans.  Had  his  living  really  depended  upon  the 
product,  the  sound  would  not  have  pleased  him 
125 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

so,  and  the  botany  of  the  weeds  he  hoed  under 
would  not  have  so  interested  him. 

Thoreau's  half-truths  titillate  and  amuse  the 
mind.  We  do  not  nod  over  his  page.  We  enjoy 
his  art  while  experiencing  an  undercurrent  of  pro 
test  against  his  unfairness.  WTe  could  have  wished 
him  to  have  shown  himself  in  his  writings  as 
somewhat  sweeter  and  more  tolerant  toward  the  rest 
of  the  world,  broader  in  outlook,  and  more  just  and 
charitable  in  disposition  —  more  like  his  great  proto 
type,  Emerson,  who  could  do  full  justice  to  the  wild 
and  the  spontaneous  without  doing  an  injustice  to 
their  opposites ;  who  could  see  the  beauty  of  the 
pine  tree,  yet  sing  the  praises  of  the  pine-tree  State 
House;  who  could  arraign  the  Government,  yet 
pay  his  taxes ;  who  could  cherish  Thoreau,  and 
yet  see  all  his  limitations.  Emerson  affirmed  more 
than  he  denied,  and  his  charity  was  as  broad  as  his 
judgment.  He  set  Thoreau  a  good  example  in 
bragging,  but  he  bragged  to  a  better  purpose.  He 
exalted  the  present  moment,  the  universal  fact, 
the  omnipotence  of  the  moral  law,  the  sacredness 
of  private  judgment;  he  pitted  the  man  of  to-day 
against  all  the  saints  and  heroes  of  history ;  and, 
although  he  decried  traveling,  he  was  yet  consider 
able  of  a  traveler,  and  never  tried  to  persuade  him 
self  that  Concord  was  an  epitome  of  the  world. 
Emerson  comes  much  nearer  being  a  national 
figure  than  does  Thoreau,  and  yet  Thoreau,  by 
126 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

reason  of  his  very  narrowness  and  perversity,  and 
by  his  intense  local  character,  united  to  the  pene 
trating  character  of  his  genius,  has  made  an  endur 
ing  impression  upon  our  literature. 


Ill 

THOREAU'S  life  was  a  search  for  the  wild.  He 
was  the  great  disciple  of  the  Gospel  of  Walking. 
He  elevated  walking  into  a  religious  exercise.  One 
of  his  most  significant  and  entertaining  chapters 
is  on  "  Walking."  No  other  writer  that  I  recall 
has  set  forth  the  Gospel  of  Walking  so  eloquently 
and  so  stimulatingly.  Thoreau's  religion  and  his 
philosophy  are  all  in  this  chapter.  It  is  his  most 
mature,  his  most  complete  and  comprehensive 
statement.  He  says : 

I  have  met  with  but  one  or  two  persons  in  the  course 
of  my  life  who  understood  the  art  of  Walking,  that  is, 
of  taking  walks  —  who  had  a  genius,  so  to  speak,  for 
sauntering,  which  word  is  beautifully  derived  "  from  idle 
people  who  roved  about  the  country,  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  asked  charity,  under  pretence  of  going 
d  la  Sainte  Terre"  to  the  Holy  Land,  till  the  children 
exclaimed,  "  There  goes  a  Sainte-Terrer,"  —  a  Saun- 
terer,  a  Holy-Lander.  They  who  never  go  to  the  Holy 
Land  in  their  walks,  as  they  pretend,  are  indeed  mere 
idlers  and  vagabonds;  but  they  who  do  go  there  are 
saunterers  in  the  good  sense,  such  as  I  mean.  .  .  .  For 
every  walk  is  a  sort  of  crusade,  preached  by  some  Peter 
the  Hermit  in  us,  to  go  forth  and  reconquer  this  Holy 
Land  from  the  hands  of  the  Infidels. 
127 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Thoreau  was  the  first  man  in  this  country,  or  in 
any  other,  so  far  as  I  know,  who  made  a  religion 
t>f  walking  —  the  first  to  announce  a  Gospel  of  the 
Wild.  That  he  went  forth  into  wild  nature  in 
much  the  same  spirit  that  the  old  hermits  went  into 
the  desert,  and  was  as  devout  in  his  way  as  they 
were  in  theirs,  is  revealed  by  numerous  passages 
in  his  Journal.  He  would  make  his  life  a  sac 
rament;  he  discarded  the  old  religious  terms  and 
ideas,  and  struck  out  new  ones  of  his  own : 

What  more  glorious  condition  of  being  can  we  imagine 
than  from  impure  to  become  pure  ?  May  I  not  forget 
that  I  am  impure  and  vicious !  May  I  not  cease  to 
love  purity  !  May  I  go  to  my  slumbers  as  expecting  to 
arise  to  a  new  and  more  perfect  day !  May  I  so  live 
and  refine  my  life  as  fitting  myself  for  a  society  ever 
higher  than  I  actually  enjoy  ! 

To  watch  for  and  describe  all  the  divine  features 
which  I  detect  in  nature !  My  profession  is  to  be  al 
ways  on  the  alert  to  find  God  in  nature,  to  know  his 
lurking-place,  to  attend  all  the  oratorios,  the  operas, 
in  nature. 

Ah !  I  would  walk,  I  would  sit,  and  sleep,  with  na 
tural  piety.  What  if  I  could  pray  aloud  or  to  myself 
as  I  went  along  the  brooksides  a  cheerful  prayer  like 
the  birds  ?  For  joy  I  could  embrace  the  earth.  I  shall 
delight  to  be  buried  in  it. 

I  do  not  deserve  anything.  I  am  unworthy  the 
least  regard,  and  yet  I  am  made  to  rejoice.  I  am  im 
pure  and  worthless,  and  yet  the  world  is  gilded  for  my 
delight  and  holidays  are  prepared  for  me,  and  my  path 
is  strewn  with  flowers.  But  I  cannot  thank  the  Giver ; 
I  cannot  even  whisper  my  thanks  to  the  human  friends 
I  have, 

128 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

In  the  essay  on  "  Walking,"  Thoreau  says  that 
the  art  of  walking  "  comes  only  by  the  grace 
of  God.  It  requires  a  direct  dispensation  from 
Heaven  to  become  a  walker.  You  must  be  born 
into  the  family  of  the  Walkers."  "  I  think  that 
I  cannot  preserve  my  health  and  spirits,  unless  I 
spend  four  hours  a  day  at  least,  —  it  is  commonly 
more  than  that,  —  sauntering  through  the  woods 
and  over  the  hills  and  fields,  absolutely  free  from 
all  worldly  engagements." 

Thoreau  made  good  his  boast.  He  was  a  new 
kind  of  walker,  a  Holy-Lander.  His  walks  yielded 
him  mainly  spiritual  and  ideal  results.  The  four 
teen  published  volumes  of  his  Journal  are  mainly 
a  record  of  his  mental  reactions  to  the  passing  sea 
sons  and  to  the  landscape  he  sauntered  through. 
There  is  a  modicum  of  natural  history,  but  mostly 
he  reaps  the  intangible  harvest  of  the  poet,  the 
saunterer,  the  mystic,  the  super-sportsman. 

With  his  usual  love  of  paradox  Thoreau  says 
that  the  fastest  way  to  travel  is  to  go  afoot,  because, 
one  may  add,  the  walker  is  constantly  arriving  at 
his  destination ;  all  places  are  alike  to  him,  his 
harvest  grows  all  along  the  road  and  beside 
every  path,  in  every  field  and  wood  and  on  every 
hilltop. 

All  of  Thoreau's  books  belong  to  the  literature 
of  Walking,  and  are  as  true  in  spirit  in  Paris  or 
London  as  in  Concord.  His  natural  history,  for 
129 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

which  he  had  a  passion,  is  the  natural  history  of  the 
walker,  not  always  accurate,  as  I  have  pointed  out, 
but  always  graphic  and  interesting. 

Wordsworth  was  about  the  first  poet-walker  — 
a  man  of  letters  who  made  a  business  of  walking, 
and  whose  study  was  really  the  open  air.  But  he 
was  not  a  Holy-Lander  in  the  Thoreau  sense.  He 
did  not  walk  to  get  away  from  people  as  Thoreau 
did,  but  to  see  a  greater  variety  of  them,  and  to 
gather  suggestions  for  his  poems.  Not  so  much 
the  wild  as  the  human  and  the  morally  signifi 
cant  were  the  objects  of  Wordsworth's  quest.  He 
haunted  waterfalls  and  fells  and  rocky  heights  and 
lonely  tarns,  but  he  was  not  averse  to  footpaths 
and  highways,  and  the  rustic,  half-domesticated 
nature  of  rural  England.  He  was  a  nature-lover; 
he  even  calls  himself  a  nature- worshiper ;  and  he 
appears  to  have  walked  as  many,  or  more,  hours 
each  day,  in  all  seasons,  as  did  Thoreau;  but  he 
was  hunting  for  no  lost  paradise  of  the  wild  ;  nor 
waging  a  war  against  the  arts  and  customs  of 
civilization.  Man  and  life  were  at  the  bottom  of 
his  interest  in  Nature. 

Wordsworth  never  knew  the  wild  as  we  know  it 
in  this  country  —  the  pitilessly  savage  and  re 
bellious;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he  never  knew 
the  wonderfully  delicate  and  furtive  and  elusive 
nature  that  we  know;  but  he  knew  the  sylvan, 
the  pastoral,  the  rustic-human,  as  we  cannot  know 
130 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

them.  British  birds  have  nothing  plaintive  in 
their  songs ;  and  British  woods  and  fells  but  little 
that  is  disorderly  and  cruel  in  their  expression,  or 
violent  in  their  contrasts. 

Wordsworth  gathered  his  finest  poetic  harvest 
from  common  nature  and  common  humanity  about 
him  —  the  wayside  birds  and  flowers  and  water 
falls,  and  the  wayside  people.  Though  he  called 
himself  a  worshiper  of  Nature,  it  was  Nature  in 
her  half -human  moods  that  he  adored  —  Nature 
that  knows  no  extremes,  and  that  has  long  been 
under  the  influence  of  man  —  a  soft,  humid,  fertile, 
docile  Nature,  that  suggests  a  domesticity  as  old 
and  as  permanent  as  that  of  cattle  and  sheep.  His 
poetry  reflects  these  features,  reflects  the  high 
moral  and  historic  significance  of  the  European 
landscape,  while  the  poetry  of  Emerson,  and  of 
Thoreau,  is  born  of  the  wildness  and  elusiveness 
of  our  more  capricious  and  unkempt  Nature. 

The  walker  has  no  axe  to  grind;  he  sniffs  the 
air  for  new  adventure ;  he  loiters  in  old  scenes,  he 
gleans  in  old  fields.  He  only  seeks  intimacy  with 
Nature  to  surprise  her  preoccupied  with  her  own 
affairs.  He  seeks  her  in  the  woods,  the  swamps, 
on  the  hills,  along  the  streams,  by  night  and  by  day, 
in  season  and  out  of  season.  He  skims  the  fields 
and  hillsides  as  the  swallow  skims  the  air,  and  what 
he  gets  is  intangible  to  most  persons.  He  sees 
much  with  his  eyes,  but  he  sees  more  with  his  heart 
131 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

and  imagination.  He  bathes  in  Nature  as  in  a 
sea.  He  is  alert  for  the  beauty  that  waves  in  the 
trees,  that  ripples  in  the  grass  and  grain,  that  flows 
in  the  streams,  that  drifts  in  the  clouds,  that 
sparkles  in  the  dew  and  rain.  The  hammer  of  the 
geologist,  the  notebook  of  the  naturalist,  the  box 
of  the  herbalist,  the  net  of  the  entomologist,  are 
not  for  him.  He  drives  no  sharp  bargains  with 
Nature,  he  reads  no  sermons  in  stones,  no  books  in 
running  brooks,  but  he  does  see  good  in  everything. 
The  book  he  reads  he  reads  through  all  his  senses 
—  through  his  eyes,  his  ears,  his  nose,  and  also 
through  his  feet  and  hands  —  and  its  pages  are 
open  everywhere;  the  rocks  speak  of  more  than 
geology  to  him,  the  birds  of  more  than  ornithology, 
the  flowers  of  more  than  botany,  the  stars  of  more 
than  astronomy,  the  wild  creatures  of  more  than 
zoology. 

The  average  walker  is  out  for  exercise  and  the 
exhilarations  of  the  road,  he  reaps  health  and 
strength ;  but  Thoreau  evidently  impaired  his 
health  by  his  needless  exposure  and  inadequate 
food.  He  was  a  Holy-Lander  who  falls  and  dies 
in  the  Holy  Land.  He  ridiculed  walking  for  exer 
cise  —  taking  a  walk  as  the  sick  take  medicine ; 
the  walk  itself  was  to  be  the  "  enterprise  and  ad 
venture  of  the  day."  And  "  you  must  walk  like 
a  camel,  which  is  said  to  be  the  only  beast  which 
ruminates  while  walking." 
132 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

IV 

THOREAU 's  friends  and  neighbors  seem  to  have 
persuaded  themselves  that  his  natural-history  lore 
was  infallible,  and,  moreover,  that  he  possessed 
some  mysterious  power  over  the  wild  creatures 
about  him  that  other  men  did  not  possess.  I  recall 
how  Emerson  fairly  bristled  up  when  on  one  occa 
sion  while  in  conversation  with  him  I  told  him  I 
thought  Thoreau  in  his  trips  to  the  Maine  woods 
had  confounded  the  hermit  thrush  with  the  wood 
thrush,  as  the  latter  was  rarely  or  never  found  in 
Maine.  As  for  Thoreau's  influence  over  the  wild 
creatures,  Emerson  voiced  this  superstition  when 
he  said,  "  Snakes  coiled  round  his  leg,  the  fishes 
swam  into  his  hand,  and  he  took  them  from  the 
water ;  he  pulled  the  woodchuck  out  of  its  hole  by 
the  tail,  and  took  the  foxes  under  his  protection 
from  the  hunters."  Of  course  Thoreau  could  do 
nothing  with  the  wild  creatures  that  you  or  I  could 
not  do  under  the  same  conditions.  A  snake  will 
coil  around  any  man's  leg  if  he  steps  on  its  tail, 
but  it  will  not  be  an  embrace  of  affection ;  and  a 
fish  will  swim  into  his  hands  under  the  same  con 
ditions  that  it  will  into  Thoreau's.  As  for  pulling 
a  woodchuck  out  of  its  hole  by  the  tail,  the  only 
trouble  is  to  get  hold  of  the  tail.  The  'chuck  is 
pretty  careful  to  keep  his  tail  behind  him,  but  many 
a  farm  boy,  aided  by  his  dog,  has  pulled  one  out  of 
the  stone  wall  by  the  tail,  much  against  the  'chuck's 

133 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

will.  If  Thoreau's  friends  were  to  claim  that  he 
could  carry  Mephitis  mephitica  by  the  tail  with 
impunity,  I  can  say  I  have  done  the  same  thing, 
and  had  my  photograph  taken  in  the  act.  The 
skunk  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  here  again 
the  trouble  is  to  get  hold  of  the  tail  at  the  right 
moment  —  and,  I  may  add,  to  let  go  of  it  at  the 
right  moment. 

Thoreau's  influence  over  the  wild  creatures  is 
what  every  man  possesses  who  is  alike  gentle  in 
his  approach  to  them.  Bradford  Torrey  succeeded, 
after  a  few  experiments,  in  so  dispelling  the  fears 
of  an  incubating  red-eyed  vireo  that  she  would 
take  insect  food  from  his  hand,  and  I  have  known 
several  persons  to  become  so  familiar  with  the 
chickadees  that  they  would  feed  from  the  hand, 
and  in  some  instances  even  take  food  from  be 
tween  the  lips.  If  you  have  a  chipmunk  for  a 
neighbor,  you  may  soon  become  on  such  intimate 
terms  with  him  that  he  will  search  your  pockets 
for  nuts  and  sit  on  your  knee  and  shoulder  and  eat 
them.  But  why  keep  alive  and  circulate  as  truth 
these  animal  legends  of  the  prescientific  ages  ? 

Thoreau  was  not  a  born  naturalist,  but  a  born 
supernaturalist.  He  was  too  intent  upon  the  bird 
behind  the  bird  always  to  take  careful  note  of  the 
bird  itself.  He  notes  the  birds,  but  not  too  closely. 
He  was  at  times  a  little  too  careless  in  this  respect 
to  be  a  safe  guide  to  the  bird-student.  Even  the 
134 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

saunterer  to  the  Holy  Land  ought  to  know  the 
indigo  bunting  from  the  black-throated  blue  war 
bler,  with  its  languid,  midsummery,  "  Zee,  zee, 
zee-eu." 

Many  of  his  most  interesting  natural-history 
notes  Thoreau  got  from  his  farmer  friends  —  Mel- 
vin,  Minott,  Miles,  Hubbard,  Wheeler.  Their  eyes 
were  more  single  to  the  life  around  them  than 
were  his ;  none  of  them  had  lost  a  hound,  a  turtle 
dove,  and  a  bay  horse,  whose  trail  they  were  daily 
in  quest  of. 

A  haunter  of  swamps  and  river  marshes  all  his 
life,  he  had  never  yet  observed  how  the  night  bit 
tern  made  its  booming  or  pumping  sound,  but  ac 
cepted  the  explanation  of  one  of  his  neighbors  that 
it  was  produced  by  the  bird  thrusting  its  bill  in 
water,  sucking  up  as  much  as  it  could  hold,  and 
then  pumping  it  out  again  with  four  or  five  heaves 
of  the  neck,  throwing  the  water  two  or  three  feet 
—  in  fact,  turning  itself  into  a  veritable  pump  !  I 
have  stood  within  a  few  yards  of  the  bird  when  it 
made  the  sound,  and  seen  the  convulsive  movement 
of  the  neck  and  body,  and  the  lifting  of  the  head 
as  the  sound  escaped.  The  bird  seems  literally 
to  vomit  up  its  notes,  but  it  does  not  likewise  emit 
water. 

Every  farmer  and  fox-hunter  would  smile  if  he 
read  Thoreau's  statement,  made  in  his  paper  on 
the  natural  history  of  Massachusetts,  that  "  when 
135 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

the  snow  lies  light  and  but  five  or  six  inches  deep, 
you  may  give  chase  and  come  up  with  the  fox  on 
foot."  Evidently  Thoreau  had  never  tried  it. 
With  a  foot  and  a  half,  or  two  feet  of  snow  on  the 
ground,  and  traveling  on  snowshoes,  you  might 
force  a  fox  to  take  to  his  hole,  but  you  would  not 
come  up  to  him.  In  four  or  five  feet  of  soft  snow 
hunters  come  up  with  the  deer,  and  ride  on  their 
backs  for  amusement,  but  I  doubt  if  a  red  fox  ever 
ventures  out  in  such  a  depth  of  snow.  In  one  of 
his  May  walks  in  1860,  Thoreau  sees  the  trail  of 
the  musquash  in  the  mud  along  the  river-bottoms, 
and  he  is  taken  by  the  fancy  that,  as  our  roads  and 
city  streets  often  follow  the  early  tracks  of  the  cow, 
so  "  rivers  in  another  period  follow  the  trail  of  the 
musquash."  As  if  the  river  was  not  there  before 
the  musquash  was ! 

Again,  his  mysterious  "  night  warbler,"  to  which 
he  so  often  alludes,  was  one  of  our  common  every 
day  birds  which  most  school-children  know, 
namely,  the  oven-bird,  or  wood-accentor,  yet  to 
Thoreau  it  was  a  sort  of  phantom  bird  upon  which 
his  imagination  loved  to  dwell.  Emerson  told 
him  he  must  beware  of  finding  and  booking  it,  lest 
life  should  have  nothing  more  to  show  him.  But 
how  such  a  haunter  of  woods  escaped  identifying 
the  bird  is  a  puzzle. 

In  his  walks  in  the  Maine  woods  Thoreau  failed 
to  discriminate  the  song  of  the  hermit  thrush  from 
136 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

that  of  the  wood  thrush.  The  melody,  no  doubt, 
went  to  his  heart,  and  that  was  enough.  Though 
he  sauntered  through  orchards  and  rested  under 
apple  trees,  he  never  observed  that  the  rings  of  small 
holes  in  the  bark  were  usually  made  by  the  yellow- 
bellied  woodpecker,  instead  of  by  Downy,  and 
that  the  bird  was  not  searching  for  grubs  or  in 
sects,  but  was  feeding  upon  the  milky  cambium 
layer  of  the  inner  bark. 

But  Thoreau's  little  slips  of  the  kind  I  have 
called  attention  to  count  as  nothing  against  the 
rich  harvest  of  natural-history  notes  with  which 
his  work  abounds.  He  could  describe  bird-songs 
and  animal  behavior  and  give  these  things  their 
right  emphasis  in  the  life  of  the  landscape  as  no 
other  New  England  writer  has  done.  His  account 
of  the  battle  of  the  ants  in  Walden  atones  an  hun 
dred-fold  for  the  lapses  I  have  mentioned. 

One  wonders  just  what  Thoreau  means  when  he 
says  in  "  Walden,"  in  telling  of  his  visit  to  "  Baker 
Farm " :  "  Once  it  chanced  that  I  stood  in  the 
very  abutment  of  a  rainbow's  arch,  which  filled 
the  lower  stratum  of  the  atmosphere,  tinging  the 
grass  and  leaves  around,  and  dazzling  me  as  if  I 
looked  through  colored  crystal."  Is  it  possible, 
then,  to  reach  the  end  of  the  rainbow?  Why  did 
he  not  dig  for  the  pot  of  gold  that  is  buried  there  ? 
How  he  could  be  aware  that  he  was  standing  at 
the  foot  of  one  leg  of  the  glowing  arch  is  to  me  a 
137 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

mystery.  When  I  see  a  rainbow,  it  is  always  im 
mediately  in  front  of  me.  I  am  standing  exactly 
between  the  highest  point  of  the  arch  and  the  sun, 
and  the  laws  of  optics  ordain  that  it  can  be  seen  in 
no  other  way.  You  can  never  see  a  rainbow  at  an 
angle.  It  always  faces  you  squarely.  Hence  no  two 
persons  see  exactly  the  same  bow,  because  no  two 
persons  can  occupy  exactly  the  same  place  at  the 
same  time.  The  bow  you  see  is  directed  to  you  alone. 
Move  to  the  right  or  the  left,  and  it  moves  as 
fast  as  you  do.  You  cannot  flank  it  or  reach  its 
end.  It  is  about  the  most  subtle  and  significant 
phenomenon  that  everyday  Nature  presents  to  us. 
Unapproachable  as  a  spirit,  like  a  visitant  from  an 
other  world,  yet  the  creation  of  the  familiar  sun 
and  rain ! 

How  Thoreau  found  himself  standing  in  the 
bow's  abutment  will  always  remain  a  puzzle  to  me. 
Observers  standing  on  high  mountains  with  the 
sun  low  in  the  west  have  seen  the  bow  as  a  com 
plete  circle.  This  one  can  understand. 

We  can  point  many  a  moral  and  adorn  many  a 
tale  with  Thoreau's  shortcomings  and  failures  in 
his  treatment  of  nature  themes.  Channing  quotes 
him  as  saying  that  sometimes  "  you  must  see  with 
the  inside  of  your  eye."  I  think  that  Thoreau  saw, 
or  tried  to  see,  with  the  inside  of  his  eye  too  often. 
He  does  not  always  see  correctly,  and  many  times 
he  sees  more  of  Thoreau  than  he  does  of  the  nature 
138 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

he  assumes  to  be  looking  at.  Truly  it  is  "  needless 
to  travel  for  wonders,"  but  the  wonderful  is  not 
one  with  the  fantastic  or  the  far-fetched.  Forcible 
expression,  as  I  have  said,  was  his  ruling  passion 
as  a  writer.  Only  when  he  is  free  from  its  thrall, 
which  in  his  best  moments  he  surely  is,  does  he 
write  well.  When  he  can  forget  Thoreau  and  re 
member  only  nature,  we  get  those  delightful  de 
scriptions  and  reflections  in  "  Walden."  When 
he  goes  to  the  Maine  woods  or  to  Cape  Cod  or  to 
Canada,  he  leaves  all  his  fantastic  rhetoric  behind 
him  and  gives  us  sane  and  refreshing  books.  In 
his  walks  with  Channing  one  suspects  he  often  let 
himself  go  to  all  lengths,  did  his  best  to  turn  the 
world  inside  out,  as  he  did  at  times  in  his  Journals, 
for  his  own  edification  and  that  of  his  wondering 
disciple. 

To  see  analogies  and  resemblances  everywhere  is 
the  gift  of  genius,  but  to  see  a  resemblance  to  vol 
canoes  in  the  hubs  or  gnarls  on  birch  or  beech  trees, 
or  cathedral  windows  in  the  dead  leaves  of  the  an- 
dromeda  in  January,  or  a  suggestion  of  Teneriffe 
in  a  stone-heap,  does  not  indicate  genius.  To  see 
the  great  in  the  little,  or  the  whole  of  Nature  in 
any  of  her  parts,  is  the  poet's  gift,  but  to  ask,  after 
seeing  the  andropogon  grass,  "  Are  there  no  purple 
reflections  from  the  culms  of  thought  in  my  mind  ?  " 
—  a  remark  which  Channing  quotes  as  very  sig 
nificant  —  is  not  to  be  poetical.  Thoreau  is  full 
139 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

of  these  impossible  and  fantastic  comparisons, 
thinking  only  of  striking  expressions  and  not  at  all 
about  the  truth.  "  The  flowing  of  the  sap  under  the 
dull  rind  of  the  trees"  is  suggestive,  but  what  sug 
gestion  is  there  in  the  remark,  "  May  I  ever  be  in 
as  good  spirits  as  a  willow  "  ?  The  mood  of  the 
scrub  oak  was  more  habitual  with  him. 

Thoreau  was  in  no  sense  an  interpreter  of  nature  ; 
he  did  not  draw  out  its  meanings  or  seize  upon  and 
develop  its  more  significant  phases.  Seldom  does 
he  relate  what  he  sees  or  thinks  to  the  universal 
human  heart  and  mind.  He  has  rare  power  of 
description,  but  is  very  limited  in  his  power  to 
translate  the  facts  and  movements  of  nature  into 
human  emotion.  His  passage  on  the  northern 
lights,  which  Channing  quotes  from  the  Journals, 
is  a  good  sample  of  his  failure  in  this  respect: 

Now  the  fire  in  the  north  increases  wonderfully,  not 
shooting  up  so  much  as  creeping  along,  like  a  fire  on  the 
mountains  of  the  north  seen  afar  in  the  night.  The 
Hyperborean  gods  are  burning  brush,  and  it  spread, 
and  all  the  hoes  in  heaven  could  n't  stop  it.  It  spread 
from  west  to  east  over  the  crescent  hill.  Like  a  vast 
fiery  worm  it  lay  across  the  northern  sky,  broken  into 
many  pieces ;  and  each  piece,  with  rainbow  colors 
skirting  it,  strove  to  advance  itself  toward  the  east, 
worm-like,  on  its  own  annular  muscles.  It  has  spread 
into  their  choicest  wood-lots.  Now  it  shoots  up  like  a 
single  solitary  watch-fire  or  burning  bush,  or  where  it 
ran  up  a  pine  tree  like  powder,  and  still  it  continues  to 
gleam  here  and  there  like  a  fat  stump  in  the  burning, 
and  is  reflected  in  the  water.  And  now  I  see  the  gods 

140 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

by  great  exertions  have  got  it  under,  and  the  stars  have 
come  out  without  fear,  in  peace. 

I  get  no  impression  of  the  mysterious  almost 
supernatural  character  of  the  aurora  from  such  a 
description  in  terms  of  a  burning  wood-lot  or  a 
hay-stack ;  it  is  no  more  like  a  conflagration  than 
an  apparition  is  like  solid  flesh  and  blood.  Its 
wonderful,  I  almost  said  its  spiritual,  beauty,  its 
sudden  vanishings  and  returnings,  its  spectral, 
evanescent  character  —  why,  it  startles  and  awes 
one  as  if  it  were  the  draperies  around  the  throne  of 
the  Eternal.  And  then  his  mixed  metaphor  — 
the  Hyperborean  gods  turned  farmers  and  busy 
at  burning  brush,  then  a  fiery  worm,  and  then  the 
burning  wood-lots !  But  this  is  Thoreau  —  in 
spired  with  the  heavenly  elixir  one  moment,  and 
drunk  with  the  brew  in  his  own  cellar  the  next. 

V 

THOREAU'S  faults  as  a  writer  are  as  obvious  as  his 
merits.  Emerson  hit  upon  one  of  them  when  he 
said,  "  The  trick  of  his  rhetoric  is  soon  learned ;  it 
consists  in  substituting  for  the  obvious  word  and 
thought,  its  diametrical  antagonist."  He  praises 
wild  mountains  and  winter  forests  for  their  domes 
tic  air,  snow  and  ice  for  their  warmth,  and  so  on. 
(Yet  Emerson  in  one  of  his  poems  makes  frost  burn 
and  fire  freeze.)  One  frequently  comes  upon  such 
sentences  as  these :  "  If  I  were  sadder,  I  should 
141 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

be  happier  " ;  "  The  longer  I  have  forgotten  you, 
the  more  I  remember  you."  It  may  give  a  mo 
ment's  pleasure  when  a  writer  takes  two  opposites 
and  rubs  their  ears  together  in  that  way,  but  one 
may  easily  get  too  much  of  it.  Words  really  mean 
nothing  when  used  in  such  a  manner.  When  Em 
erson  told  Channing  that  if  he  (Emerson)  could 
write  as  well  as  he  did,  he  would  write  a  great 
deal  better,  one  readily  sees  what  he  means.  And 
when  Thoreau  says  of  one  of  his  callers,  "  I  like 
his  looks  and  the  sound  of  his  silence,"  the  con 
tradiction  pleases  one.  But  when  he  tells  his 
friend  that  hate  is  the  substratum  of  his  love  for 
him,  words  seem  to  have  lost  their  meaning.  Now 
and  then  he  is  guilty  of  sheer  bragging,  as  when 
he  says,  "  I  would  not  go  around  the  corner  to  see 
the  world  blow  up." 

He  often  defies  all  our  sense  of  fitness  and  propor 
tion  by  the  degree  in  which  he  magnifies  the  little 
and  belittles  the  big.  He  says  of  the  singing  of  a 
cricket  which  he  heard  under  the  border  of  some 
rock  on  the  hillside  one  mid-May  day,  that  it 
"  makes  the  finest  singing  of  birds  outward  and  in 
significant."  "  It  is  not  so  wildly  melodious,  but 
it  is  wiser  and  more  mature  than  that  of  the  wood 
thrush."  His  forced  and  meaningless  analogies 
come  out  in  such  a  comparison  as  this :  "  Most 
poems,  like  the  fruits,  are  sweetest  toward  the  blos 
som  end."  Which  is  the  blossom  end  of  a  poem? 
142 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

Thoreau  advised  one  of  his  correspondents  when 
he  made  garden  to  plant  some  Giant  Regrets  — 
they  were  good  for  sauce.  It  is  certain  that  he 
himself  planted  some  Giant  Exaggerations  and 
had  a  good  yield.  His  exaggeration  was  deliberate. 
"  Walden  "  is  from  first  to  last  a  most  delightful 
sample  of  his  talent.  He  belittles  everything  that 
goes  on  in  the  world  outside  his  bean-field.  JBusi:. 
ness,  politics,  institutions,  governments,  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars,  were  not  so  much  to  him  as  tlie_ 
humming  of  a  mosquito  in  his  hut  at  Walden: 
"  I  am  as  much  affected  by  the  faint  hum  of  a  mos 
quito  making  its  invisible  and  unimaginable  tour 
through  my  apartment  at  earliest  dawn,  when  I 
was  sitting  with  door  and  windows  open,  as  I  could 
be  by  any  trumpet  that  ever  sang  of  fame.  It  was 
Homer's  requiem;  itself  an  Iliad  and  Odyssey  in 
the  air,  singing  its  own  wrath  and  wanderings. 
There  was  something  cosmical  about  it."  One 
wonders  what  he  would  have  made  of  a  blow-fly 
buzzing  on  the  pane. 

He  made  Walden  Pond  famous  because  he  made 

Jt  the  center  of  the  ^miverse  and  found  life  rich  and 
full  withouLjuany  of  the  things  that  others  deem 

jieeessary^  There  is  a  stream  of  pilgrims  to  Wal 
den  at  all  seasons,  curious  to  see  where  so  much 
came  out  of  so  little  —  where  a  man  had  lived  who 
preferred  poverty  to  ricjies,  and  solitude  to  so 
ciety,  who  boastedTtiiat  he  could  do  without  the 
143 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

post  office,  the  newspapers,  the  telegraph,  and  who 
had  little  use  for  the  railroad,  though  he  thought 
mankind  had  become  a  little  more  punctual  since 
its  invention. 

Another  conspicuous  fault  as  a  writer  is  his  fre 
quent  use  of  false  analogies,  or  his  comparison  of 
things  which  have  no  ground  of  relationship,  as 
when  he  says :  "A  day  passed  in  the  society  of 
those  Greek  sages,  such  as  described  in  the  Ban 
quet  of  Xenophon,  would  not  be  comparable  with 
the  dry  wit  of  decayed  cranberry-vines,  and  the 
fresh  Attic  salt  of  the  moss-beds."  The  word 
"  wit  "  has  no  meaning  when  thus  used.  Or  again 
where  he  says :  "All  great  enterprises  are  self- 
supporting.  The  poet,  for  instance,  must  sustain 
his  body  by  his  poetry,  as  a  steam  planing-mill 
feeds  its  boilers  with  the  shavings  it  makes."  Was 
there  ever  a  more  inept  and  untruthful  com 
parison?  To  find  any  ground  of  comparison  be 
tween  the  two  things  he  compared,  he  must  make 
his  poet  sustain  his  body  by  the  scraps  and  lines 
of  his  poem  which  he  rejects,  or  else  the  steam  plan- 
ing-mill  consume  its  finished  product. 

"  Let  all  things  give  way  to  the  impulse  of 
expression,"  he  says,  and  he  assuredly  practiced 
what  he  had  preached. 

One  of  his  tricks  of  self- justification  was  to  com 
pare  himself  with  inanimate  objects,  which  is  usu 
ally  as  inept  as  to  compare  colors  with  sounds 
144 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

or  perfumes :  "  My  acquaintances  sometimes  im 
ply  that  I  am  too  cold,"  he  writes,  "  but  each  thing 
is  warm  enough  of  its  kind.  Is  the  stone  too  cold 
which  absorbs  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun  and 
does  not  part  with  it  during  the  night  ?  Crystals, 
though  they  be  of  ice  are  not  too  cold  to  melt.  .  .  . 
Crystal  does  not  complain  of  crystal  any  more  than 
the  dove  of  its  mate." 

\       He  strikes  the  same  false  note  when,  in  discuss- 
/    ing  the  question  of  solitude  at  Walden  he  compares 
himself  to  the  wild  animals  around  him,  and  to 
inanimate  objects,  and  says  he  was  no  more  lonely 
than  the  loons  on  the  pond,  or  than  Walden  itself : 

\"  I  am  no  more  lonely  than  a  single  mullein  or 
dandelion  in  a  pasture,  or  a  bean  leaf,  or  a  sorrel, 
or  a  house-fly,  or  a  humble-bee.  I  am  no  more 
lonely  than  the  Mill  Brook,  or  a  weather-cock,  or 
the  North  Star,  or  the  South  Wind,  or  an  April 
Shower,  or  a  January  Thaw,  or  the  first  spider  in 
a  new  house."  .Did  he  imagine  that  any  of  these 
things  were  ever  lonely?  Man  does  get  lonely, 
but  Mill  Brook  and  the  North  Star  probably  do 
not. 

If  he  sees  anything  unusual  in  nature,  like  galls 
on  trees  and  plants,  he  must  needs  draw  some 
moral  from  it,  usually  at  the  expense  of  the  truth. 
For  instance,  he  implies  that  the  beauty  of  the 
oak  galls  is  something  that  was  meant  to  bloom 
in  the  flower,  that  the  galls  are  the  scarlet  sins  of 
145 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

the  tree,  the  tree's  Ode  to  Dejection,  yet  he  must 
have  known  that  they  are  the  work  of  an  insect  and 
are  as  healthy  a  growth  as  is  the  regular  leaf.  The 
insect  gives  the  magical  touch  that  transforms 
the  leaf  into  a  nursery  for  its  young.  Why  de 
ceive  ourselves  by  believing  that  fiction  is  more 
interesting  than  fact  ?  But  Thoreau  is  full  of  this 
sort  of  thing;  he  must  have  his  analogy,  true  or 
false. 

He  says  that  when  a  certain  philosophical  neigh 
bor  came  to  visit  him  in  his  hut  at  Walden,  their 
discourse  expanded  and  racked  the  little  house : 
"  I  should  not  dare  to  say  how  many  pounds' 
weight  there  was  above  the  atmospheric  pressure 
on  every  circular  inch ;  it  opened  its  seams  so  that 
they  had  to  be  calked  with  much  dulness  thereafter 
to  stop  the  consequent  leak  —  but  I  had  enough 
of  that  kind  of  oakum  already  picked."  At  the 
beginning  of  the  paragraph  he  says  that  he  and  his 
philosopher  sat  down  each  with  "  some  shingles  of 
thoughts  well  dried,"  which  they  whittled,  trying 
their  knives  and  admiring  the  clear  yellowish 
grain  of  the  pumpkin  pine.  In  a  twinkling  the 
three  shingles  of  thought  are  transformed  into 
fishes  of  thought  in  a  stream  into  which  the  her 
mit  and  the  philosopher  gently  and  reverently 
wade,  without  scaring  or  disturbing  them.  Then, 
presto !  the  fish  become  a  force,  like  the  pressure  of 
a  tornado  that  nearly  wrecks  his  cabin !  Surely 
146 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

this  is  tipsy  rhetoric,  and  the  work  that  can  stand 
much  of  it,  as  "  Walden  "  does,  has  a  plus  vitality 
that  is  rarely  equaled. 

VI 

IN  "  Walden  "  Thoreau,  in  playfully  naming  his 
various  occupations,  says,  "  For  a  long  time  I  was 
reporter  to  a  journal,  of  no  very  wide  circulation, 
whose  editor  has  never  yet  seen  fit  to  print  the 
bulk  of  my  contributions,  and,  as  is  too  common 
with  writers,  I  got  only  my  labor  for  my  pains. 
However,  in  this  case  my  pains  were  their  own  re 
ward."  If  he  were  to  come  back  now,  he  would,  I 
think,  open  his  eyes  in  astonishment,  perhaps  with 
irritation,  to  see  the  whole  bulk  of  them  at  last  in 
print. 

His  Journal  was  the  repository  of  all  his  writings, 
and  was  drawn  upon  during  his  lifetime  for  all  the 
material  he  printed  in  books  and  contributed  to  the 
magazines.  The  fourteen  volumes,  I  venture  to 
say,  form  a  record  of  the  most  minute  and  pains 
taking  details  of  what  one  man  saw  and  heard  on 
his  walks  in  field  and  wood,  in  a  single  township, 
that  can  be  found  in  any  literature. 

It  seems  as  though  a  man  who  keeps  a  Journal 
soon  becomes  its  victim ;  at  least  that  seems  to 
have  been  the  case  with  Thoreau.  He  lived  for 
that  Journal,  he  read  for  it,  he  walked  for  it;  it 
was  like  a  hungry,  omnivorous  monster  that  con- 
147 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

stantly  called  for  more.  He  transcribed  to  its 
pages  from  the  books  he  read,  he  filled  it  with 
interminable  accounts  of  the  commonplace  things 
he  saw  in  his  walks,  tedious  and  minute  descrip 
tions  of  everything  in  wood,  field,  and  swamp. 
There  are  whole  pages  of  the  Latin  names  of  the 
common  weeds  and  flowers.  Often  he  could  not 
wait  till  he  got  home  to  write  out  his  notes.  He 
walked  by  day  and  night,  in  cold  and  heat,  in  storm 
and  sunshine,  all  for  his  Journal.  All  was  fish 
that  came  to  that  net ;  nothing  was  too  insignifi 
cant  to  go  in.  He  did  not  stop  to  make  literature 
of  it,  or  did  not  try,  and  it  is  rarely  the  raw  ma 
terial  of  literature.  Its  human  interest  is  slight, 
its  natural  history  interest  slight  also.  For  up 
wards  of  twenty-five  years  Thoreau  seemed  to  have 
lived  for  this  Journal.  It  swelled  to  many  volumes. 
It  is  a  drag-net  that  nothing  escapes.  The  general 
reader  reads  Thoreau's  Journal  as  he  does  the  book 
of  Nature,  just  to  cull  out  the  significant  things  here 
and  there.  The  vast  mass  of  the  matter  is  merely 
negative,  like  the  things  that  we  disregard  in  our 
walk.  Here  and  there  we  see  a  flower,  or  a  tree,  or 
a  prospect,  or  a  bird,  that  arrests  attention,  but  how 
much  we  pass  by  or  over  without  giving  it  a  thought ! 
And  yet,  just  as  the  real  nature-lover  will  scan 
eagerly  the  fine  print  in  Nature's  book,  so  will  the 
student  and  enthusiast  of  Thoreau  welcome  all 
that  is  recorded  in  his  Journals. 
148 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

Thoreau  says  that  Channing  in  their  walks  to 
gether  sometimes  took  out  his  notebook  and  tried 
to  write  as  he  did,  but  all  in  vain.  "  He  soon 
puts  it  up  again,  or  contents  himself  with  scrawl 
ing  some  sketch  of  the  landscape.  Observing  me 
still  scribbling,  he  will  say  that  he  confines  him 
self  to  the  ideal,  purely  ideal  remarks;  he  leaves 
the  facts  to  me.  Sometimes,  too,  he  will  say,  a 
little  petulantly,  '  I  am  universal ;  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  particular  and  definite.'  '  The 
truth  was  Channing  had  no  Journal  calling,  "  More, 
more ! "  and  was  not  so  inordinately  fond  of 
composition.  "  I,  too,"  says  Thoreau,  "  would 
fain  set  down  something  beside  facts.  Facts 
should  only  be  as  the  frame  to  my  pictures ;  they 
should  be  material  to  the  mythology  which  I  am 
writing."  But  only  rarely  are  his  facts  significant, 
or  capable  of  an  ideal  interpretation.  Felicitous 
strokes  like  that  in  which  he  says,  "  No  tree  has  so 
fair  a  bole  and  so  handsome  an  instep  as  the  birch," 
are  rare. 

Thoreau  evidently  had  a  certain  companionship 
with  his  Journal.  It  was  like  a  home-staying  body 
to  whom  he  told  everything  on  his  return  from  a 
walk.  He  loved  to  write  it  up.  He  made  notes 
of  his  observations  as  he  went  along,  night  or  day. 
One  time  he  forgot  his  notebook  and  so  substituted 
a  piece  of  birch-bark.  He  must  bring  back  some 
thing  gathered  on  the  spot.  He  skimmed  the 
149 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

same  country  over  and  over;  the  cream  he  was 
after  rose  every  day  and  all  day,  and  in  all  sea 
sons. 

He  evidently  loved  to  see  the  pages  of  his  Jour 
nal  sprinkled  with  the  Latin  names  of  the  plants 
and  animals  that  he  saw  in  his  walk.  A  common 
weed  with  a  long  Latin  name  acquired  new  dignity. 
Occasionally  he  fills  whole  pages  with  the  scientific 
names  of  the  common  trees  and  plants.  He  loved 
also  a  sprinkling  of  Latin  quotations  and  allusions 
to  old  and  little  known  authors.  The  pride  of 
scholarship  was  strong  in  him.  Suggestions  from 
what  we  call  the  heathen  world  seemed  to  accord 
with  his  Gospel  of  the  Wild. 

Thoreau  loved  to  write  as  well  as  John  Muir 
loved  to  talk.  It  was  his  ruling  passion.  He  said 
time  never  passed  so  quickly  as  when  he  was  writ 
ing.  It  seemed  as  if  the  clock  had  been  set  back. 
He  evidently  went  to  Walden  for  subject-matter 
for  his  pen ;  and  the  remarkable  thing  about  it  all 
is  that  he  was  always  keyed  up  to  the  writing  pitch. 
The  fever  of  expression  was  always  upon  him. 
Day  and  night,  winter  and  summer,  it  raged  in  his 
blood.  He  paused  in  his  walks  and  wrote  elabo 
rately.  The  writing  of  his  Journal  must  have 
taken  as  much  time  as  his  walking. 

Only  Thoreau's  constant  and  unquenchable 
thirst  for  intellectual  activity,  and  to  supply  ma 
terial  for  that  all-devouring  Journal,  can,  to  me, 
150 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

account  for  his  main  occupation  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  last  two  years  of  his  life,  which  con 
sisted  in  traversing  the  woods  and  measuring  the 
trees  and  stumps  and  counting  their  rings.  Ap 
parently  not  a  stump  escaped  him  —  pine,  oak, 
birch,  chestnut,  maple,  old  or  new,  in  the  pasture 
or  in  the  woods ;  he  must  take  its  measure  and 
know  its  age.  He  must  get  the  girth  of  every  tree 
he  passed  and  some  hint  of  all  the  local  conditions 
that  had  influenced  its  growth.  Over  two  hun 
dred  pages  of  his  Journal  are  taken  up  with  bar 
ren  details  of  this  kind.  He  cross-questions  the 
stumps  and  trees  as  if  searching  for  the  clue  to 
some  important  problem,  but  no  such  problem  is 
disclosed.  He  ends  where  he  begins.  His  vast 
mass  of  facts  and  figures  was  incapable  of  being 
generalized  or  systematized.  His  elaborate  tables 
of  figures,  so  carefully  arranged,  absolutely  ac 
curate,  no  doubt,  are  void  of  interest,  because 
no  valuable  inferences  can  be  drawn  from  them. 

"  I  have  measured  in  all  eight  pitch  pine  stumps 
at  the  Tommy  Wheeler  hollow,  sawed  off  within  a 
foot  of  the  ground.  I  measured  the  longest  diam 
eter  and  then  at  right  angles  with  that,  and  took 
the  average,  and  then  selected  the  side  of  the  stump 
on  which  the  radius  was  of  average  length,  and 
counted  the  number  of  rings  in  each  inch,  begin 
ning  at  the  center,  thus :  "  And  then  follows  a 
table  of  figures  filling  a  page.  "  Of  those  eight, 
151 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

average  growth  about  one  seventh  of  an  inch  per 
year.  Calling  the  smallest  number  of  rings  in  an 
inch  in  each  tree  one,  the  comparative  slowness  of 
growth  of  the  inches  is  thus  expressed."  Then 
follows  another  carefully  prepared  table  of  figures. 
Before  one  is  done  with  these  pages  one  fairly  sus 
pects  the  writer  is  mad,  the  results  are  so  useless, 
and  so  utterly  fail  to  add  to  our  knowledge 
of  the  woods.  Would  counting  the  leaves  and 
branches  in  the  forest,  and  making  a  pattern 
of  each,  and  tabulating  the  whole  mass  of  fig 
ures  be  any  addition  to  our  knowledge?  I  at 
tribute  the  whole  procedure,  as  I  have  said,  to  his 
uncontrollable  intellectual  activity,  and  the  im 
aginary  demands  of  this  Journal,  which  continued 
to  the  end  of  his  life.  The  very  last  pages  of  his 
Journal,  a  year  previous  to  his  death,  are  filled 
with  minute  accounts  of  the  ordinary  behavior  of 
kittens,  not  one  item  novel  or  unusual,  or  throwing 
any  light  on  the  kitten.  But  it  kept  his  mind  busy, 
and  added  a  page  or  two  to  the  Journal. 

In  his  winter  walks  he  usually  carried  a  four- 
foot  stick,  marked  in  inches,  and  would  measure 
the  depth  of  the  snow  over  large  areas,  every  tenth 
step,  and  then  construct  pages  of  elaborate  tables 
showing  the  variations  according  to  locality,  and 
then  work  out  the  average  —  an  abnormal  crav 
ing  for  exact  but  useless  facts.  Thirty-four  meas 
urements  on  Walden  disclosed  the  important  fact 
152 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

that  the  snow  averaged  five  and  one  sixth  inches 
deep.  He  analyzes  a  pensile  nest  which  he  found 
in  the  woods  —  doubtless  one  of  the  vireo's  —  and 
fills  ten  pages  with  a  minute  description  of  the 
different  materials  which  it  contained.  Then  he 
analyzes  a  yellow-bird's  nest,  filling  two  pages. 
That  Journal  shall  not  go  hungry,  even  if  there  is 
nothing  to  give  it  but  the  dry  material  of  a  bird's 
nest. 

VII 

THE  craving  for  literary  expression  in  Thoreau  was 
strong  and  constant,  but,  as  he  confesses,  he  could 
not  always  select  a  theme.  "  I  am  prepared  not 
so  much  for  contemplation  as  for  forceful  ex 
pression."  No  matter  what  the  occasion,  "  force 
ful  expression  "  was  the  aim.  No  meditation,  or 
thinking,  but  sallies  of  the  mind.  All  his  paradoxes 
and  false  analogies  and  inconsistencies  come  from 
this  craving  for  a  forceful  expression.  He  appar 
ently  brought  to  bear  all  the  skill  he  possessed  of 
this  kind  on  all  occasions.  One  must  regard  him, 
not  as  a  great  thinker,  nor  as  a  disinterested  seeker 
after  the  truth,  but  as  a  master  in  the  art  of  vig 
orous  and  picturesque  expression.  To  startle,  to 
wake  up,  to  communicate  to  his  reader  a  little 
wholesome  shock,  is  his  aim.  Not  the  novelty 
and  freshness  of  his  subject-matter  concerns  him 
but  the  novelty  and  unhackneyed  character  of  his 
153 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

literary  style.  That  throughout  the  years  a  man 
should  keep  up  the  habit  of  walking,  by  night 
as  well  as  by  day,  and  bring  such  constant  intel 
lectual  pressure  to  bear  upon  everything  he  saw. 
or  heard,  or  felt,  is  remarkable.  No  evidence  of 
relaxation,  or  of  abandonment  to  the  mere  pleasure 
of  the  light  and  air  and  of  green  things  growing,  or  of 
sauntering  without  thoughts  of  his  Journal.  He  is 
as  keyed  up  and  strenuous  in  his  commerce  with  the 
Celestial  Empire  as  any  tradesman  in  world  goods 
that  ever  amassed  a  fortune.  He  sometimes  wrote 
as  he  walked,  and  expanded  and  elaborated  the 
same  as  in  his  study.  On  one  occasion  he  dropped 
his  pencil  and  could  not  find  it,  but  he  managed  to 
complete  the  record.  One  night  on  his  way  to 
Conantum  he  speculates  for  nearly  ten  printed 
pages  on  the  secret  of  being  able  to  state  a  fact 
simply  and  adequately,  or  of  making  one's  self  the 
free  organ  of  truth  —  a  subtle  and  ingenious  dis 
cussion  with  the  habitual  craving  for  forceful  ex 
pression.  In  vain  I  try  to  put  myself  in  the  place 
of  a  man  who  goes  forth  into  wild  nature  with  mal 
ice  prepense  to  give  free  swing  to  his  passion  for 
forcible  expression.  I  suppose  all  nature-writers 
go  forth  on  their  walks  or  strolls  to  the  fields  and 
woods  with  minds  open  to  all  of  Nature's  genial 
influences  and  significant  facts  and  incidents,  but 
rarely,  I  think,  with  the  strenuousness  of  Thoreau 
—  grinding  the  grist  as  they  go  along. 
154 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

Thoreau  compares  himself  to  the  bee  that  goes 
forth  in  quest  of  honey  for  the  hive :  "  How  to 
extract  honey  from  the  flower  of  the  world.  That 
is  my  everyday  business.  I  am  as  busy  as  the  bee 
about  it.  I  ramble  over  all  fields  on  that  errand 
and  am  never  so  happy  as  when  I  feel  myself  heavy 
with  honey  and  wax."  To  get  material  for  his 
Journal  was  as  much  his  business  as  it  was  the 
bee's  to  get  honey  for  his  comb.  He  apparently 
did  not  know  that  the  bee  does  not  get  honey  nor 
wax  directly  from  the  flowers,  but  only  nectar,  or 
sweet  water.  The  bee,  as  I  have  often  said,  makes 
the  honey  and  the  wax  after  she  gets  home  to  the 
swarm.  She  putSxthe  nectar  through  a  process  of 
her  own,  adds  a  dropof  her  own  secretion  to  it, 
namely,  formic  acid,  me  water  evaporates,  and 
lo  !  the  tang  and  pungency  of  honey  ! 

VIII 

THERE  can  be  little  doubt  that  in  his  practical 
daily  life  we  may  credit  Thoreau  with  the  friend 
liness  and  neighborliness  that  his  friend  Dr.  Edward 
W.  Emerson  claims  for  him.  In  a  recent  letter  to 
me,  Dr.  Emerson  writes  :  "  He  carried  the  old  New 
England  undemonstrativeness  very  far.  He  was 
also,  I  believe,  really  shy,  prospered  only  in  mono 
logue,  except  in  a  walk  in  the  woods  with  one  com 
panion,  and  his  difficulties  increased  to  impossi 
bility  in  a  room  full  of  people."  Dr.  Emerson  ad- 
15S 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

mils  that  Thoreau  is  himself  to  blame  for  giving 
his  readers  the  impression  that  he  held  his  kind  in 
contempt,  but  says  that  in  reality  he  had  neighbor- 
liness,  was  dutiful  to  parents  and  sisters,  showed 
courtesy  to  women  and  children  and  an  open, 
friendly  side  to  many  a  simple,  uncultivated 
townsman. 

This  practical  helpfulness  and  friendliness  in 
Thoreau's  case  seems  to  go  along  with  the  secret 
contempt  he  felt  and  expressed  in  his  Journal 
toward  his  fellow  townsmen.  At  one  time  he  was 
chosen  among  the  selectmen  to  perambulate  the 
town  lines  —  an  old  annual  custom.  One  day 
they  perambulated  the  Lincoln  line,  the  next  day 
the  Bedford  line,  the  next  day  the  Carlisle  line, 
and  so  on,  and  kept  on  their  rounds  for  a  week. 
Thoreau  felt  soiled  and  humiliated.  "  A  fatal 
coarseness  is  the  result  of  mixing  in  the  trivial  af 
fairs  of  men.  Though  I  have  been  associating 
even  with  the  select  men  of  this  and  adjoining 
towns,  I  feel  inexpressibly  begrimed."  How 
fragile  his  self-respect  was!  Yet  he  had  friends 
among  the  surrounding  farmers,  whose  society  and 
conversation  he  greatly  valued. 

That  Thoreau  gave  the  impression  of  being 
what  country  folk  call  a  crusty  person  —  curt  and 
forbidding  in  manner  —  seems  pretty  well  es 
tablished.  His  friend  Alcott  says  he  was  deficient 
in  the  human  sentiments.  Emerson,  who,  on  the 
156 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

whole,  loved  and  admired  him,  says :  :<  Thoreau 
sometimes  appears  only  as  a  gendarme,  good  to 
knock  down  a  cockney  with,  but  without  that 
power  to  cheer  and  establish  which  makes  the  value 
of  a  friend."  Again  he  says :  "  If  I  knew  only 
Thoreau,  I  should  think  cooperation  of  good  men 
impossible.  Must  we  always  talk  for  victory,  and 
never  once  for  truth,  for  comfort,  and  joy  ?  Cen- 
trality  he  has,  and  penetration,  strong  understand 
ing,  and  the  higher  gifts,  —  the  insight  of  the  real, 
or  from  the  real,  and  the  moral  rectitude  that  be 
longs  to  it ;  but  all  this  and  all  his  resources  of  wit 
and  invention  are  lost  to  me,  in  every  experiment, 
year  after  year,  that  I  make,  to  hold  intercourse 
with  his  mind.  Always  some  weary  captious  para 
dox  to  fight  you  with,  and  the  time  and  temper 
wasted."  "It  is  curious,"  he  again  says,  "  that 
Thoreau  goes  to  a  house  to  say  with  little  preface 
what  he  has  just  read  or  observed,  delivers  it  in  a 
lump,  is  quite  inattentive  to  any  comment  or 
thought  which  any  of  the  company  offer  on  the 
matter,  nay,  is  merely  interrupted  by  it,  and  when 
he  has  finished  his  report  departs  with  precipita 
tion." 

It  is  interesting  in  this  connection  to  put  along 
side  of  these  rather  caustic  criticisms  a  remark  in 
kind  recorded  by  Thoreau  in  his  Journal  concern 
ing  Emerson :  "  Talked,  or  tried  to  talk,  with 
R.  W.  E.  Lost  my  time  —  nay,  almost  my  iden- 
157 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

tity.     He,  assuming  a  false  opposition  where  there 
was  no  difference  of  opinion,  talked  to  the  wind  — 
told  me  what  I  knew  —  and  I  lost  my  time  trying 
to  imagine  myself  somebody  else  to  oppose  him." 

Evidently  Concord  philosophers  were  not  al 
ways  in  concord. 

More  characteristic  of  Emerson  is  the  incident 
Thoreau  relates  of  his  driving  his  own  calf,  which 
had  just  come  in  with  the  cows,  out  of  the  yard, 
thinking  it  belonged  to  a  drove  that  was  then  going 
by.  From  all  accounts  Emerson  was  as  slow  to 
recognize  his  own  thoughts  when  Alcott  and  Chan- 
ning  aired  them  before  him  as  he  was  to  recog 
nize  his  own  calf. 

"  I  have  got  a  load  of  great  hardwood  stumps," 
writes  Thoreau,  and  then,  as  though  following  out 
a  thought  suggested  by  them,  he  adds :  "  For 
sympathy  with  my  neighbors  I  might  about  as 
well  live  in  China.  They  are  to  me  barbarians 
with  their  committee  works  and  gregariousness." 

Probably  the  stumps  were  from  trees  that  grew 
on  his  neighbors'  farms  and  were  a  gift  to  him. 
Let  us  hope  the  farmers  did  not  deliver  them  to 
him  free  of  charge.  He  complained  that  the  thou 
sand  and  one  gentlemen  that  he  met  were  all  alike ; 
he  was  not  cheered  by  the  hope  of  any  rudeness 
from  them :  "  A  cross  man,  a  coarse  man,  an 
eccentric  man,  a  silent  man  who  does  not  drill 
well  —  of  him  there  is  some  hope,"  he  declares. 
158 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

Herein  we  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Thoreau  ideal  which 
led  his  friend  Alcott  to  complain  that  he  lacked 
the  human  sentiment.  He  may  or  may  not  have 
been  a  "  cross  man,"  but  he  certainly  did  not 
"  drill  well,"  for  which  his  readers  have  reason  to 
be  thankful.  Although  Thoreau  upholds  the  cross 
and  the  coarse  man,  one  would  really  like  to  know 
with  what  grace  he  would  have  put  up  with  gratui 
tous  discourtesy  or  insult.  I  remember  an  entry  in 
his  Journal  in  which  he  tells  of  feeling  a  little 
cheapened  when  a  neighbor  asked  him  to  take 
some  handbills  and  leave  them  at  a  certain  place 
as  he  passed  on  his  walk. 

A  great  deal  of  the  piquancy  and  novelty  in 
Thoreau  come  from  the  unexpected  turn  he  gives 
to  things,  upsetting  all  our  preconceived  notions. 
His  trick  of  exaggeration  he  rather  brags  of :  "  Ex 
pect  no  trivial  truth  from  me,"  he  says,  "  unless 
I  am  on  the  witness  stand."  He  even  exaggerates 
his  own  tendency  to  exaggeration.  It  is  all  a  part 
of  his  scheme  to  startle  and  wake  people  up.  He 
exaggerates  his  likes,  and  he  exaggerates  his  dis 
likes,  and  he  exaggerates  his  indifference.  It  is  a 
way  he  has  of  bragging.  The  moment  he  puts  pen 
to  paper  the  imp  of  exaggeration  seizes  it.  He 
lived  to  see  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  and  in 
a  letter  to  a  friend  expressed  his  indifference  in  re 
gard  to  Fort  Sumter  and  "  Old  Abe,"  and  all  that, 
yet  Mr.  Sanborn  says  he  was  as  zealous  about  the 
159 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

war  as  any  soldier.  The  John  Brown  tragedy 
made  him  sick,  and  the  war  so  worked  upon  his 
feelings  that  in  his  failing  state  of  health  he  said 
he  could  never  get  well  while  it  lasted.  His  passion 
for  Nature  and  the  wild  carried  him  to  the  ex 
tent  of  looking  with  suspicion,  if  not  with  positive 
dislike,  upon  all  of  man's  doings  and  institutions. 
All  civil  and  political  and  social  organizations 
received  scant  justice  at  his  hands.  He  instantly 
espoused  the  cause  of  John  Brown  and  championed 
him  in  the  most  public  manner  because  he  (Brown) 
defied  the  iniquitous  laws  and  fell  a  martyr  to  the 
cause  of  justice  and  right.  If  he  had  lived  in  our 
times,  one  would  have  expected  him,  in  his  letters 
to  friends,  to  pooh-pooh  the  World  War  that  has 
drenched  Europe  with  blood,  while  in  his  heart  he 
would  probably  have  been  as  deeply  moved  about 
it  as  any  of  us  were. 

Thoreau  must  be  a  stoic,  he  must  be  an  egotist, 
he  must  be  illogical,  whenever  he  puts  pen  to  pa 
per.  This  does  not  mean  that  he  was  a  hypocrite, 
but  it  means  that  on  his  practical  human  side  he 
did  not  differ  so  much  from  the  rest  of  us,  but  that 
in  his  mental  and  spiritual  life  he  pursued  ideal 
ends  with  a  seriousness  that  few  of  us  are  equal  to. 
He  loved  to  take  an  air-line.  In  his  trips  about 
the  country  to  visit  distant  parts,  he  usually  took 
the  roads  and  paths  or  means  of  conveyance  that 
other  persons  took,  but  now  and  then  he  would 
160 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

lay  down  his  ruler  on  the  map,  draw  a  straight 
line  to  the  point  he  proposed  to  visit,  and  follow 
that,  going  through  the  meadows  and  gardens  and 
door-yards  of  the  owners  of  the  property  in  his 
line  of  march.  There  is  a  tradition  that  he  and 
Channing  once  went  through  a  house  where  the 
front  and  back  door  stood  open.  In  his  mental 
flights  and  excursions  he  follows  this  plan  almost 
entirely ;  the  hard  facts  and  experiences  of  life 
trouble  him  very  little.  He  can  always  ignore 
them  or  sail  serenely  above  them. 

How  is  one  to  reconcile  such  an  expression  as 
this  with  what  his  friends  report  of  his  actual  life : 
"  My  countrymen  are  to  me  foreigners.  I  have 
but  little  more  sympathy  with  them  than  with  the 
mobs  of  India  or  China  "  ?  Or  this  about  his 
Concord  neighbors,  as  he  looks  down  upon  them 
from  a  near-by  hill :  "  On  whatever  side  I  look  off, 
I  am  reminded  of  the  mean  and  narrow-minded 
men  whom  I  have  lately  met  there.  What  can 
be  uglier  than  a  country  occupied  by  grovelling, 
coarse,  and  low-minded  men  ?  —  no  scenery  can 
redeem  it.  Hornets,  hyenas,  and  baboons  are  not 
so  great  a  curse  to  a  country  as  men  of  a  similar 
character."  Tried  by  his  ideal  standards,  his 
neighbors  and  his  countrymen  generally  were,  of 
course,  found  wanting,  yet  he  went  about  among 
them  helpful  and  sympathetic  and  enjoyed  his  life 
to  the  last  gasp.  These  things  reveal  to  us  what 
161 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

a  gulf  there  may  be  between  a  man's  actual  life 
and  the  high  altitudes  in  which  he  disports  him 
self  when  he  lets  go  his  imagination. 

IX 

IN  his  paper  called  "  Life  without  Principle," 
his  radical  idealism  comes  out :  To  work  for  money, 
or  for  subsistence  alone,  is  life  without  principle. 
A  man  must  work  for  the  love  of  the  work.  Get 
a  man  to  work  for  you  who  is  actuated  by  love  for 
you  or  for  the  work  alone.  Find  some  one  to  beat 
your  rugs  and  carpets  and  clean  out  your  well,  or 
weed  your  onion-patch,  who  is  not  influenced  by 
any  money  consideration.  This  were  ideal,  in 
deed  ;  this  suggests  paradise.  Thoreau  probably 
loved  his  lecturing,  and  his  surveying,  and  his  mag 
azine  writing,  and  the  money  these  avocations 
brought  him  did  not  seem  unworthy,  but  could 
the  business  and  industrial  world  safely  adopt  that 
principle  ? 

So  far  as  I  understand  him,  we  all  live  without 
principle  when  we  do  anything  that  goes  against  the 
grain,  or  for  money,  or  for  bread  alone.  "  To 
have  done  anything  by  which  you  earned  money  is 
to  have  been  truly  idle  or  worse."  "  If  you  would 
get  money  as  a  writer  or  lecturer,  you  must  be 
popular,  which  is  to  go  down  perpendicularly." 
Yet  his  neighbor  Emerson  was  in  much  demand 
as  a  lecturer,  and  earned  a  good  deal  of  money  in 
162 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

that  way.  Truly  idealists  like  Thoreau  are  hard 
to  satisfy.  Agassiz  said  he  could  not  afford  to 
give  his  time  to  making  money,  but  how  many 
Agassiz  are  there  in  the  world  at  any  one  time? 
Such  a  man  as  our  own  Edison  is  influenced  very 
little  by  the  commercial  value  of  his  inventions. 
This  is  as  it  should  be,  but  only  a  small  fraction  of 
mankind  do  or  can  live  to  ideal  ends.  Those  who 
work  for  love  are  certainly  the  lucky  ones,  and  are 
exceptionally  endowed.  It  is  love  of  the  sport 
that  usually  sends  one  a-fishing  or  a-hunting,  and 
this  gives  it  the  sanction  of  the  Gospel  according 
to  Thoreau.  Bradford  Torrey  saw  a  man  sitting 
on  a  log  down  in  Florida  who  told  him,  when  he 
asked  about  his  occupation,  that  he  had  no  time 
to  work !  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Thoreau  enjoyed 
his  surveying,  as  he  probably  did,  especially  when 
it  took  him  through  sphagnum  swamps  or  scrub- 
oak  thickets  or  a  tangle  of  briers  and  thorns.  The 
more  difficult  the  way,  the  more  he  could  summon 
his  philosophy.  ;<  You  must  get  your  living  by 
loving."  It  is  a  hard  saying,  but  it  is  a  part  of 
his  gospel.  But  as  he  on  one  occasion  worked 
seventy-six  days  surveying,  for  only  one  dollar  a 
day,  the  money  he  received  should  not  be  laid  up 
against  him. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  we  find  Thoreau  frequently 
engaging  in  manual  labor  to  earn  a  little  money. 
He  relates  in  his  Journal  of  1857  that  while  he  was 
163 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

living  in  the  woods  he  did  various  jobs  about  town 
— fence-building,  painting,  gardening,  carpentering  : 

One  day  a  man  came  from  the  east  edge  of  the  town 
and  said  that  he  wanted  to  get  me  to  brick  up  a  fire 
place,  etc.,  etc.,  for  him.  I  told  him  that  I  was  not  a 
mason,  but  he  knew  that  I  had  built  my  own  house  en 
tirely  and  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer.  So  I  went. 

It  was  three  miles  off,  and  I  walked  back  and  forth 
each  day,  arriving  early  and  working  as  late  as  if  I  were 
living  there.  The  man  was  gone  away  most  of  the 
time,  but  had  left  some  sand  dug  up  in  his  cow-yard 
for  me  to  make  mortar  with.  I  bricked  up  a  fireplace, 
papered  a  chamber,  but  my  principal  work  was  white 
washing  ceilings.  Some  were  so  dirty  that  many  coats 
would  not  conceal  the  dirt.  In  the  kitchen  I  finally 
resorted  to  yellow-wash  to  cover  the  dirt.  I  took  my 
meals  there,  sitting  down  with  my  employer  (when  he 
got  home)  and  his  hired  men.  I  remember  the  awful 
condition  of  the  sink,  at  which  I  washed  one  day,  and 
when  I  came  to  look  at  what  was  called  the  towel  I 
passed  it  by  and  wiped  my  hands  on  the  air,  and  there 
after  I  resorted  to  the  pump.  I  worked  there  hard 
three  days,  charging  only  a  dollar  a  day. 

About  the  same  time  I  also  contracted  to  build  a 
wood-shed  of  no  mean  size,  for,  I  think,  exactly  six  dol 
lars,  and  cleared  about  half  of  it  by  a  close  calculation 
and  swift  working.  The  tenant  wanted  me  to  throw 
in  a  gutter  and  latch,  but  I  carried  off  the  board  that 
was  left  and  gave  him  no  latch  but  a  button.  It  stands 
yet,  —  behind  the  Kettle  house.  I  broke  up  Johnny 
Kettle's  old  "trow,"  in  which  he  kneaded  his  bread, 
for  material.  Going  home  with  what  nails  were  left  in 
a  flower  [sic  /]  bucket  on  my  arm,  in  a  rain,  I  was  about 
getting  into  a  hay-rigging,  when  my  umbrella  frightened 
the  horse,  and  he  kicked  at  me  over  the  fills,  smashed 
the  bucket  on  my  arm,  and  stretched  me  on  my  back ; 
164 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

but  while  I  lay  on  my  back,  his  leg  being  caught  under 
the  shaft,  I  got  up,  to  see  him  sprawling  on  the  other 
side.  This  accident,  the  sudden  bending  of  my  body 
backwards,  sprained  my  stomach  so  that  I  did  not  get 
quite  strong  there  for  several  years,  but  had  to  give  up 
some  fence-building  and  other  work  which  I  had  under 
taken  from  time  to  time. 

I  built  the  common  slat  fence  for  $1.50  per  rod,  or 
worked  for  $1.00  per  day.  I  built  six  fences. 

These  homely  and  laborious  occupations  show 
the  dreamer  and  transcendentalist  of  Walden  in 
a  very  interesting  light.  In  his  practical  life  he 
was  a  ready  and  resourceful  man  and  could  set  his 
neighbors  a  good  example,  and  no  doubt  give  them 
good  advice.  But  what  fun  he  had  with  his  cor 
respondents  when  they  wrote  him  for  practical 
advice  about  the  conduct  of  their  lives !  One  of 
them  had  evidently  been  vexing  his  soul  over  the 
problem  of  Church  and  State :  "  Why  not  make  a 
very  large  mud  pie  and  bake  it  in  the  sun  ?  Only 
put  no  Church  nor  State  into  it,  nor  upset  any 
other  pepper  box  that  way.  Dig  out  a  woodchuck 
—  for  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  rotting  institu 
tions.  Go  ahead." 

Dear,  old-fashioned  Wilson  Flagg,  who  wrote 
pleasantly,  but  rather  tamely,  about  New  England 
birds  and  seasons,  could  not  profit  much  from 
Thoreau's  criticism :  "  He  wants  stirring  up  with 
a  pole.  He  should  practice  turning  a  series  of 
summer-sets  rapidly,  or  jump  up  and  see  how  many 
165 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

times  he  can  strike  his  feet  together  before  coming 
down.  Let  him  make  the  earth  turn  round  now 
the  other  way,  and  whet  his  wits  on  it  as  on  a 
grindstone;  in  short,  see  how  many  ideas  he  can 
entertain  at  once." 

Expect  no  Poor  Richard  maxims  or  counsel 
from  Thoreau.  He  would  tell  you  to  invest  your 
savings  in  the  bonds  of  the  Celestial  Empire,  or 
plant  your  garden  with  a  crop  of  Giant  Regrets. 
He  says  these  are  excellent  for  sauce.  He  en 
courages  one  of  his  correspondents  with  the  state 
ment  that  he  "  never  yet  knew  the  sun  to  be 
knocked  down  and  rolled  through  a  mud  puddle; 
he  comes  out  honor  bright  from  behind  every 
storm." 

X 

ALL  Thoreau's  apparent  inconsistencies  and  con 
tradictions  come  from  his  radical  idealism.  In  all 
his  judgments  upon  men  and  things,  and  upon 
himself,  he  is  an  uncompromising  idealist.  All 
fall  short.  Add  his  habit  of  exaggeration  and  you 
have  him  saying  that  the  pigs  in  the  street  in  New 
York  (in  1843)  are  the  most  respectable  part  of  the 
population.  The  pigs,  I  suppose,  lived  up  to  the 
pig  standard,  but  the  people  did  not  live  up  to  the 
best  human  standards.  Wherever  the  ideal  leads 
him,  there  he  follows.  After  his  brother  John's 
death  he  said  he  did  not  wish  ever  to  see  John 
166 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

again,  but  only  the  ideal  John  —  that  other  John 
of  whom  he  was  but  the  imperfect  representative. 
Yet  the  loss  of  the  real  John  was  a  great  blow  to 
him,  probably  the  severest  in  his  life.  But  he 
never  allows  himself  to  go  on  record  as  showing 
any  human  weakness. 

"  Comparatively,"  he  says,  "  we  can  excuse 
any  offense  against  the  heart,  but  not  against  the 
imagination."  Thoreau  probably  lived  in  his 
heart  as  much  as  most  other  persons,  but  his  pe 
culiar  gospel  is  the  work  of  his  imagination.  He 
could  turn  his  idealism  to  practical  account.  A 
man  who  had  been  camping  with  him  told  me  that 
on  such  expeditions  he  carried  a  small  piece  of 
cake  carefully  wrapped  up  in  his  pocket  and  that 
after  he  had  eaten  his  dinner  he  would  take  a 
small  pinch  of  this  cake.  His  imagination  seemed 
to  do  the  rest. 

The  most  unpromising  subject  would  often 
kindle  the  imagination  of  Thoreau.  His  imagina 
tion  fairly  runs  riot  over  poor  Bill  Wheeler,  a  crip 
ple  and  a  sot  who  stumped  along  on  two  clumps 
for  feet,  and  who  earned  his  grog  by  doing  chores 
here  and  there.  One  day  Thoreau  found  him 
asleep  in  the  woods  in  a  low  shelter  which  consisted 
of  meadow  hay  cast  over  a  rude  frame.  It  was 
a  rare  find  to  Thoreau.  A  man  who  could  turn 
his  back  upon  the  town  and  civilization  like  that 
must  be  some  great  philosopher,  greater  than 
167 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Socrates  or  Diogenes,  living  perhaps  "  from  a  deep 
principle,"  "  simplifying  life,  returning  to  na 
ture,"  having  put  off  many  things,  —  "  luxuries, 
comforts,  human  society,  even  his  feet,  —  wres 
tling  with  his  thoughts."  He  outdid  himself.  He 
out-Thoreaued  Thoreau :  "  Who  knows  but  in 
his  solitary  meadow-hay  bunk  he  indulges,  in 
thought,  only  in  triumphant  satires  on  men? 
[More  severe  than  those  of  the  Walden  hermit?] 
I  was  not  sure  for  a  moment  but  here  was  a 
philosopher  who  had  left  far  behind  him  the  phi 
losophers  of  Greece  and  India,  and  I  envied  him 
his  advantageous  point  of  view  -  '  with  much 
more  to  the  same  effect. 

Thoreau's  reaction  from  the  ordinary  humdrum, 
respectable,  and  comfortable  country  life  was  so 
intense,  and  his  ideal  of  the  free  and  austere  life  he 
would  live  so  vivid,  that  he  could  thus  see  in  this 
besotted  vagabond  a  career  and  a  degree  of  wis 
dom  that  he  loved  to  contemplate. 

One  catches  eagerly  at  any  evidence  of  tender 
human  emotions  in  Thoreau,  his  stoical  indifference 
is  so  habitual  with  him  :  "I  laughed  at  myself 
the  other  day  to  think  that  I  cried  while  reading 
a  pathetic  story."  And  he  excuses  himself  by 
saying,  "  It  is  not  I,  but  Nature  in  me,  which  was 
stronger  than  I." 

It  was  hard  for  Thoreau  to  get  interested  in 
young  women.  He  once  went  to  an  evening  party 
168 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

of  thirty  or  forty  of  them,  "  in  a  small  room,  warm 
and  noisy."  He  was  introduced  to  two  of  them, 
but  could  not  hear  what  they  said,  there  was  such 
a  cackling.  He  concludes  by  saying :  "*  The  so 
ciety  of  young  women  is  the  most  unprofitable  I 
have  ever  tried.  They  are  so  light  and  flighty 
that  you  can  never  be  sure  whether  they  are  there 
or  not." 

XI 

As  a  philosopher  or  expositor  and  interpreter  of  a 
principle,  Thoreau  is  often  simply  grotesque.  His 
passion  for  strong  and  striking  figures  usually  gets 
the  best  of  him.  In  discussing  the  relation  that 
exists  between  the  speaker  or  lecturer  and  his  au 
dience  he  says,  "  The  lecturer  will  read  best  those 
parts  of  his  lecture  which  are  best  heard,"  as  if 
the  reading  did  not  precede  the  hearing !  Then 
comes  this  grotesque  analogy :  "I  saw  some  men 
unloading  molasses-hogsheads  from  a  truck  at  a 
depot  the  other  day,  rolling  them  up  an  inclined 
plane.  The  truckman  stood  behind  and  shoved, 
after  putting  a  couple  of  ropes,  one  round  each 
end  of  the  hogshead,  while  two  men  standing  in  the 
depot  steadily  pulled  at  the  ropes.  The  first  man 
was  the  lecturer,  the  last  was  the  audience."  I 
suppose  the  hogshead  stands  for  the  big  thoughts 
of  the  speaker  which  he  cannot  manage  at  all  with 
out  the  active  cooperation  of  the  audience.  The 
169 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

truth  is,  people  assemble  in  a  lecture  hall  in  a  pas 
sive  but  expectant  frame  of  mind.  They  are  ready 
to  be  pleased  or  displeased.  They  are  there  like 
an  instrument  to  be  played  upon  by  the  orator. 
He  may  work  his  will  with  them.  Without  their 
sympathy  his  success  will  not  be  great,  but  the 
triumpk  of  his  art  is  to  win  their  sympathy.  Those 
who  went  to  scoff  when  the  Great  Preacher  spoke, 
remained  to  pray.  No  man  could  speak  as  elo 
quently  to  empty  seats,  or  to  a  dummy  audience, 
as  to  a  hall  filled  with  intelligent  people,  yet 
Thoreau's  ropes  and  hogsheads  and  pulling  and 
pushing  truckmen  absurdly  misrepresent  the  true 
relation  that  exists  between  a  speaker  and  his 
hearers.  Of  course  a  speaker  finds  it  uphill  work 
if  his  audience  is  not  with  him,  but  that  it  is  not 
with  him  is  usually  his  own  fault. 

Thoreau's  merits  as  a  man  and  a  writer  are  so 
many  and  so  great  that  I  have  not  hesitated  to 
make  much  of  his  defects.  Indeed,  I  have  with 
malice  aforethought  ransacked  his  works  to  find 
them.  But  after  they  are  all  charged  up  against 
him,  the  balance  that  remains  on  the  credit  side  of 
the  account  is  so  great  that  they  do  not  disturb  us. 

There  has  been  but  one  Thoreau,  and  we  should 
devoutly  thank  the  gods  of  New  England  for  the 
precious  gift.  Thoreau's  work  lives  and  will  con 
tinue  to  live  because,  in  the  first  place,  the  world 
loves  a  writer  who  can  flout  it  and  turn  his  back 
170 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THOREAU 

upon  it  and  yet  make  good ;  and  again  because  the 
books  which  he  gave  to  the  world  have  many  and 
very  high  literary  and  ethical  values.  They  are 
fresh,  original,  and  stimulating.  He  drew  a  gospel 
out  of  the  wild ;  he  brought  messages  from  the 
wood  gods  to  men;  he  made  a  lonely  pond  in 
Massachusetts  a  fountain  of  the  purest  and  most 
elevating  thoughts,  and,  with  his  great  neighbor 
Emerson,  added  new  luster  to  a  town  over  which 
the  muse  of  our  colonial  history  had  long  loved  to 
dwell. 


171 


IV 

A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 


IT  is  never  safe  to  question  Darwin's  facts,  but  it 
is  always  safe  to  question  any  man's  theories.  It 
is  with  Darwin's  theories  that  I  am  mainly  con 
cerned  here.  He  has  already  been  shorn  of  his 
selection  doctrines  as  completely  as  Samson  was 
shorn  of  his  locks,  but  there  are  other  phases  of  his 
life  and  teachings  that  invite  discussion. 

The  study  of  Darwin's  works  begets  such  an 
affection  for  the  man,  for  the  elements  of  character 
displayed  on  every  page,  that  one  is  slow  in  con 
vincing  one's  self  that  anything  is  wrong  with  his 
theories.  There  is  danger  that  one's  critical  judg 
ment  will  be  blinded  by  one's  partiality  for  the 
man. 

For  the  band  of  brilliant  men  who  surrounded 
him  and  championed  his  doctrines  —  Spencer, 
Huxley,  Lyall,  Hooker,  and  others  —  one  feels 
nothing  more  personal  than  admiration ;  unless 
the  eloquent  and  chivalrous  Huxley  —  the  knight 
in  shining  armor  of  the  Darwinian  theory  - 
inspires  a  warmer  feeling.  Darwin  himself  almost 
172 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

disarms  one  by  his  amazing  candor  and  his  utter 
self-abnegation.  The  question  always  paramount 
in  his  mind  is,  What  is  the  truth  about  this  mat 
ter  ?  What  fact  have  you  got  for  me,  he  seems  to 
say,  that  will  upset  my  conclusion?  If  you  have 
one,  that  is  just  what  I  am  looking  for. 

Could  we  have  been  permitted  to  gaze  upon  the 
earth  in  the  middle  geologic  period,  in  Jurassic  or 
Triassic  times,  we  should  have  seen  it  teeming  with 
huge,  uncouth,  gigantic  forms  of  animal  life,  in  the 
sea,  on  the  land,  and  in  the  air,  and  with  many 
lesser  forms,  but  with  no  sign  of  man  anywhere; 
ransack  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole  and  there  was 
no  sign  or  suggestion,  so  far  as  we  could  have  seen, 
of  a  human  being. 

Come  down  the  stream  of  time  several  millions 
of  years  —  to  our  own  geologic  age  —  and  we  find 
the  earth  swarming  with  the  human  species  like 
an  ant-hill  with  ants,  and  with  a  vast  number  of 
forms  not  found  in  the  Mesozoic  era;  and  the 
men  are  doing  to  a  large  part  of  the  earth  what  the 
ants  do  to  a  square  rod  of  its  surface.  Where  did 
they  come  from  ?  We  cannot,  in  our  day,  believe 
that  a  hand  reached  down  from  heaven,  or  up  from 
below,  and  placed  them  there.  There  is  no  alter 
native  but  to  believe  that  in  some  way  they  arose 
out  of  the  antecedent  animal  life  of  the  globe ;  in 
other  words  that  man  is  the  result  of  the  process  of 
evolution,  and  that  all  other  existing  forms  of  life, 
173 


THE   LAST   HARVEST 

vegetable  and  animal,  are  a  product  of  the  same 
movement. 

To  explain  how  this  came  about,  what  factors 
and  forces  entered  into  the  transformation,  is  the 
task  that  Darwin  set  himself.  It  was  a  mighty 
task,  and  whether  or  not  his  solution  of  the  prob 
lem  stands  the  test  of  time,  we  must  yet  bow  in 
reverence  before  one  of  the  greatest  of  natural 
philosophers;  for  even  to  have  conceived  this 
problem  thus  clearly,  and  to  have  placed  it  in  in 
telligible  form  before  men's  minds,  is  a  great 
achievement. 

Darwin  was  as  far  from  being  as  sure  of  the  truth 
of  Darwinism  as  many  of  his  disciples  were,  and 
still  are.  He  said  in  1860,  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his 
American  correspondents,  "  I  have  never  for  a  mo 
ment  doubted  that,  though  I  cannot  see  my  errors, 
much  of  my  book  ["  The  Origin  of  Species  "]  will 
be  proved  erroneous."  Again  he  said,  in  1862, 
"  I  look  at  it  as  absolutely  certain  that  very  much 
in  the  '  Origin  '  will  be  proved  rubbish ;  but  I  ex 
pect  and  hope  that  the  framework  will  stand." 

Its  framework  is  the  theory  of  Evolution,  which 
is  very  sure  to  stand.  In  its  inception  his  theory 
is  half-miracle  and  half-fact.  He  assumes  that 
in  the  beginning  (as  if  there  ever  was  or  could  be 
a  "  beginning,"  in  that  sense)  God  created  a  few 
forms,  animal  and  vegetable,  and  then  left  it  to  the 
gods  of  Evolution,  the  chief  of  which  is  Natural 
174 


A  CRITICAL   GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

Selection,  to  do  the  rest.  While  Darwin  would 
not  admit  any  predetermining  factors  in  Evolu 
tion,  or  that  any  innate  tendency  to  progressive 
development  existed,  he  said  he  could  not  look 
upon  the  world  of  living  things  as  the  result  of 
chance.  Yet  in  fortuitous,  or  chance,  variation  he 
saw  one  of  the  chief  factors  of  Evolution. 

The  world  of  Chance  into  which  Darwinism 
delivers  us  —  what  can  the  thoughtful  mind  make 
of  it? 

That  life  with  all  its  myriad  forms  is  the  result 
of  chance  is,  according  to  Professor  Osborn,  a  bio 
logical  dogma.  He  everywhere  uses  the  word 
"  chance  "  as  opposed  to  law,  or  to  the  sequence  of 
cause  and  effect.  This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  a  misuse 
of  the  term.  Is  law,  in  this  sense,  ever  suspended 
or  annulled  ?  If  one  chances  to  fall  off  his  horse  or 
his  house,  is  it  not  gravity  that  pulls  him  down? 
Are  not  the  laws  of  energy  everywhere  operative 
in  all  movements  of  matter  in  the  material  world  ? 
Chance  is  not  opposed  to  law,  but  to  design.  Any 
thing  that  befalls  us  that  was  not  designed  is  a 
matter  of  chance.  The  fortuitous  enters  largely 
into  all  human  life.  If  I  carelessly  toss  a  stone 
across  the  road,  it  is  a  matter  of  chance  just  where 
it  will  fall,  but  its  course  is  not  lawless.  Does  not 
gravity  act  upon  it?  does  not  the  resistance  of  the 
air  act  upon  it  ?  does  not  the  muscular  force  of  my 
arm  act  upon  it  ?  and  does  not  this  complex  of 
175 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

physical  forces  determine  the  precise  spot  where 
the  stone  shall  fall  ?  If,  in  its  fall,  it  were  to  hit 
a  bird  or  a  mouse  or  a  flower,  that  would  be  a  mat 
ter  of  chance,  so  far  as  my  will  was  concerned.  Is 
not  a  meteoric  stone  falling  out  of  space  acted  upon 
by  similar  forces,  which  determine  where  it  shall 
strike  the  earth  ?  In  this  case,  we  must  substitute 
for  the  energy  of  my  arm  the  cosmic  energy  that 
gives  the  primal  impetus  to  all  heavenly  bodies. 
If  the  falling  aerolite  were  to  hit  a  person  or  a 
house,  we  should  say  it  was  a  matter  of  chance, 
because  it  was  not  planned  or  designed.  But  when 
the  shells  of  the  long-range  guns  hit  their  invisible 
target  or  the  bombs  from  the  airplanes  hit  their 
marks,  chance  plays  a  part,  because  all  the  factors 
that  enter  into  the  problem  are  not  and  cannot  be 
on  the  instant  accurately  measured.  The  col 
lision  of  two  heavenly  bodies  in  the  depth  of  space, 
which  does  happen,  is,  from  our  point  of  view,  a 
matter  of  chance,  although  governed  by  inexorable 
law. 

The  forms  of  inanimate  objects  —  rocks,  hills, 
rivers,  lakes  —  are  matters  of  chance,  since  they 
serve  no  purpose :  any  other  form  would  be  as 
fit ;  but  the  forms  of  living  things  are  always  pur 
poseful.  Is  it  possible  to  believe  that  the  human 
body,  with  all  its  complicated  mechanism,  its 
many  wonderful  organs  of  secretion  and  excretion 
and  assimilation,  is  any  more  matter  of  chance 
176 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

than  a  watch  or  a  phonograph  is?  Though  what 
agent  to  substitute  for  the  word  "  chance,"  I  confess 
I  do  not  know.  The  short  cut  to  an  omnipotent 
Creator  sitting  apart  from  the  thing  created  will 
not  satisfy  the  naturalist.  And  to  make  energy 
itself  creative,  as  Professor  Osborn  does,  is  only  to 
substitute  one  god  for  another.  I  can  no  more 
think  of  the  course  of  organic  evolution  as  being 
accidental  in  the  Darwinian  sense,  than  I  can  think 
of  the  evolution  of  the  printing-press  or  the  aero 
plane  as  being  accidental,  although  chance  has 
played  its  part.  Can  we  think  of  the  first  little 
horse  of  which  we  have  any  record,  the  eohippus 
of  three  or  four  millions  of  years  ago,  as  evolving 
by  accidental  variations  into  the  horse  of  our  time, 
without  presupposing  an  equine  impulse  to  devel 
opment?  As  well  might  we  trust  our  ships  to  the 
winds  and  waves  with  the  expectation  that  they 
will  reach  their  several  ports. 

Are  we  to  believe  that  we  live  in  an  entirely 
mechanical  and  fortuitous  world  —  a  world  which 
has  no  interior,  which  is  only  a  maze  of  acting, 
reacting,  and  interacting  of  blind  physical  forces? 
According  to  the  chance  theory,  the  struggle  of  a 
living  body  to  exist  does  not  differ  from  the  vicis 
situdes  of,  say,  water  seeking  an  equilibrium,  or 
heat  a  uniform  temperature. 

Chance  has  played  an  important  part  in  human 
history,  and  in  all  life-history  —  often,  no  doubt, 
177 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

the  main  part  —  since  history  began.  It  was  by 
chance  that  Columbus  discovered  America ;  he 
simply  blundered  upon  it.  He  had  set  out  on 
his  voyage  with  something  quite  different  in 
view.  But  his  ship,  and  the  crew,  and  the  voy 
age  itself,  were  not  matters  of  chance  but  of 
purpose. 

According  to  the  selectionists'  theory,  chance 
gave  the  bird  its  wings,  the  fish  its  fins,  the  por 
cupine  its  quills,  the  skunk  its  fetid  secretion,  the 
cuttlefish  its  ink,  the  swordfish  its  sword,  the 
electric  eel  its  powerful  battery ;  it  gave  the  giraffe 
its  long  neck,  the  camel  its  hump,  the  horse  its 
hoof,  the  ruminants  their  horns  and  double  stom 
ach,  and  so  on.  According  to  Weismann,  it  gave 
us  our  eyes,  our  ears,  our  hands  with  the  fingers 
and  opposing  thumb,  it  gave  us  all  the  complicated 
and  wonderful  organs  of  our  bodies,  and  all  their 
circulation,  respiration,  digestion,  assimilation, 
secretion,  excretion,  reproduction.  All  we  are, 
or  can  be,  the  selectionist  credits  to  Natural 
Selection. 

Try  to  think  of  that  wonderful  organ,  the  eye, 
with  all  its  marvelous  powers  and  adaptations,  as 
the  result  of  what  we  call  chance  or  Natural  Se 
lection.  Well  may  Darwin  have  said  that  the  eye 
made  him  shudder  when  he  tried  to  account  for  it 
by  Natural  Selection.  Why,  its  adaptations  in 
one  respect  alone,  minor  though  they  be,  are 
178 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

enough  to  stagger  any  number  of  selectionists.  I 
refer  to  the  rows  of  peculiar  glands  that  secrete  an 
oily  substance,  differing  in  chemical  composition 
from  any  other  secretion,  a  secretion  which  keeps 
the  eyelids  from  sticking  together  in  sleep.  "  Be 
havior  as  lawless  as  snowflakes,"  says  Whitman 
—  a  phrase  which  probably  stuck  to  him  from 
Rousseau;  but  are  snowflakes  and  raindrops  law 
less  ?  To  us  creatures  of  purpose,  they  are  so  be 
cause  the  order  of  their  falling  is  haphazard.  They 
obey  their  own  laws.  Again  we  see  chance  work 
ing  inside  of  law. 

When  the  sower  scatters  the  seed-grains  from  his 
hand,  he  does  not  and  cannot  determine  the  point 
of  soil  upon  which  any  of  them  shall  fall,  but  there 
is  design  in  his  being  there  and  in  sowing  the  seed. 
Astronomy  is  an  exact  science,  biology  is  not. 
The  celestial  events  always  happen  on  time.  The 
astronomers  can  tell  us  to  the  fraction  of  a  second 
when  the  eclipses  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  the 
transit  of  the  inferior  planets  across  the  sun's  disk 
will  take  place.  They  know  and  have  measured 
all  the  forces  that  bring  them  about.  Now,  if  we 
knew  with  the  same  mathematical  precision  all  the 
elements  that  enter  into  the  complex  of  forces 
which  shapes  our  lives,  could  we  forecast  the  future 
with  the  same  accuracy  with  which  the  astrono 
mers  forecast  the  movements  of  the  orbs?  or  are 
there  incommensurable  factors  in  life  ? 
179 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

II 

How  are  we  to  reconcile  the  obvious  hit-and-miss 
method  of  Nature  with  the  reign  of  law,  or  with  a 
world  of  design  ?  Consider  the  seeds  of  a  plant  or 
a  tree,  as  sown  by  the  wind.  It  is  a  matter  of 
chance  where  they  alight;  it  is  hit  or  miss  with 
them  always.  Yet  the  seeds,  say,  of  the  cat-tail 
flag  always  find  the  wet  or  the  marshy  places.  If 
they  had  a  topographical  map  of  the  country  and 
a  hundred  eyes  they  could  not  succeed  better.  Of 
course,  there  are  vastly  more  failures  than  suc 
cesses  with  them,  but  one  success  in  ten  thousand 
trials  is  enough.  They  go  to  all  points  of  the  com 
pass  with  the  wind,  and  sooner  or  later  hit  the 
mark.  Chance  decides  where  the  seed  shall  fall, 
but  it  was  not  chance  that  gave  wings  to  this  and 
other  seeds.  The  hooks  and  wings  and  springs 
and  parachutes  that  wind-sown  seeds  possess  are 
not  matters  of  chance  :  they  all  show  design.  So 
here  is  design  working  in  a  hit-and-miss  world. 

There  are  chance  details  in  any  general  plan. 
The  general  forms  which  a  maple  or  an  oak  or  an 
elm  takes  in  the  forest  or  in  the  field  are  fixed,  but 
many  of  the  details  are  quite  accidental.  All  the 
individual  trees  of  a  species  have  a  general  resem 
blance,  but  one  differs  from  another  in  the  number 
and  exact  distribution  of  the  branches,  and  in 
many  other  ways.  We  cannot  solve  the  fun 
damental  problems  of  biology  by  addition  and 
180 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

subtraction.  He  who  sees  nothing  transcendent 
and  mysterious  in  the  universe  does  not  see  deeply ; 
he  lacks  that  vision  without  which  the  people 
perish.  All  organic  and  structural  changes  are 
adaptive  from  the  first ;  they  do  not  need  natural 
selection  to  whip  them  into  shape.  All  it  can  do 
is  to  serve  as  a  weeding-out  process. 

Acquired  characters  are  not  inherited,  but  those 
organic  changes  which  are  the  result  of  the  in 
dwelling  impulse  of  development  are  inherited.  So 
dominant  and  fundamental  are  the  results  of  this 
impulse  that  cross-breeding  does  not  wipe  them  out. 

Ill 

WHILE  I  cannot  believe  that  we  live  in  a  world 
of  chance,  any  more  than  Darwin  could,  yet 
I  feel  that  I  am  as  free  from  any  teleological 
taint  as  he  was.  The  world-old  notion  of  a 
creator  and  director,  sitting  apart  from  the  uni 
verse  and  shaping  and  controlling  all  its  affairs, 
a  magnified  king  or  emperor,  finds  no  lodgment  in 
my  mind.  Kings  and  despots  have  had  their  day, 
both  in  heaven  and  on  earth.  The  universe  is  a 
democracy.  The  W7hole  directs  the  Whole.  Every 
particle  plays  its  own  part,  and  yet  the  universe  is 
a  unit  as  much  as  is  the  human  body,  with 
all  its  myriad  of  individual  cells,  and  all  its  many 
separate  organs  functioning  in  harmony.  And 
the  mind  I  see  in  nature  is  just  as  obvious  as  the 
181 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

mind  I  see  in  myself,  and  subject  to  the  same  im 
perfections  and  limitations. 

In  following  Lamarck  I  am  not  disturbed  by  the 
bogey  of  teleology,  or  the  ghost  of  mysticism.  I 
am  persuaded  that  there  is  something  immanent 
in  the  universe,  pervading  every  atom  and  mole 
cule  in  it,  that  knows  what  it  wants  —  a  Cosmic 
Mind  or  Intelligence  that  we  must  take  account  of 
if  we  would  make  any  headway  in  trying  to  under 
stand  the  world  in  which  we  find  ourselves. 

When  we  deny  God  it  is  always  in  behalf  of 
some  other  god.  We  are  compelled  to  recognize 
something  not  ourselves  from  which  we  proceed, 
and  in  which  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  be 
ing,  call  it  energy,  or  will,  or  Jehovah,  or  Ancient 
of  Days.  We  cannot  deny  it  because  we  are  a  part 
of  it.  As  well  might  the  fountain  deny  the  sea  or 
the  cloud.  Each  of  us  is  a  fraction  of  the  universal 
Eternal  Intelligence.  Is  it  unscientific  to  believe 
that  our  own  minds  have  their  counterpart  or  their 
origin  in  the  nature  of  which  we  form  a  part  ?  Is 
our  own  intelligence  all  there  is  of  mind-manifes 
tation  in  the  universe?  Where  did  we  get  this 
divine  gift?  Did  we  take  all  there  was  of  it? 
Certainly  we  did  not  ourselves  invent  it.  It  would 
require  considerable  wit  to  do  that.  Mind  is 
immanent  in  nature,  but  in  man  alone  it  becomes 
self-conscious.  Wherever  there  is  adaptation  of 
means  to  an  end,  there  is  mind. 
182 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

Yet  we  use  the  terms  "  guidance,"  "  predeter 
mination,"  and  so  on,  at  the  risk  of  being  misun 
derstood.  All  such  terms  are  charged  with  the 
meaning  that  our  daily  lives  impart  to  them  and, 
when  applied  to  the  processes  of  the  Cosmos,  are  only 
half-truths.  From  our  experience  with  objects  and 
forces  in  this  world,  the  earth  ought  to  rest  upon 
something,  and  that  object  upon  something,  and  the 
moon  ought  to  fall  upon  the  earth,  and  the  earth  fall 
into  the  sun,  and,  in  fact,  the  whole  sidereal  system 
ought  to  collapse.  But  it  does  not,  and  will  not. 
As  nearly  as  we  can  put  it  into  words,  the  whole 
visible  universe  floats  in  a  boundless  and  fathomless 
sea  of  energy ;  and  that  is  all  we  know  about  it. 

If  chance  brought  us  here  and  endowed  us  with 
our  bodies  and  our  minds,  and  keeps  us  here,  and 
adapts  us  to  the  world  in  which  we  live,  is  not 
Chance  a  good  enough  god  for  any  of  us?  Or  if 
Natural  Selection  did  it,  or  orthogenesis  or  epi- 
genesis,  or  any  other  genesis,  have  we  not  in  any  of 
these  found  a  god  equal  to  the  occasion  ?  Darwin 
goes  wrong,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  so,  when  he 
describes  or  characterizes  the  activities  of  Nature 
in  terms  of  our  own  activities.  Man's  selection 
affords  no  clue  to  Nature's  selection,  and  the  best 
to  man  is  not  the  best  to  Nature.  For  instance, 
she  is  concerned  with  color  and  form  only  so  far  as 
they  have  survival  value.  We  are  concerned  more 
with  intrinsic  values. 

183 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

"  Man,"  says  Darwin,  "  selects  only  for  his 
own  good ;  Nature  only  for  the  good  of  the  being 
which  she  tends."  But  Nature's  good  is  of  an 
other  order  than  man's  :  it  is  the  good  of  all.  Na 
ture  aims  at  a  general  good,  man  at  a  particular 
good  to  himself.  Man  waters  his  garden ;  Na 
ture  sends  the  rain  broadcast  upon  the  just  and 
the  unjust,  upon  the  sea  as  upon  the  land.  Man 
directs  and  controls  his  planting  and  his  harvest 
ing  along  specific  lines :  he  selects  his  seed  and 
prepares  his  soil;  Nature  has  no  system  in  this 
respect :  she  trusts  her  seeds  to  the  winds  and 
the  waters,  and  to  beasts  and  birds,  and  her  har 
vest  rarely  fails. 

Nature's  methods,  we  say,  are  blind,  haphazard ; 
the  wind  blows  where  it  listeth,  and  the  seeds  fall 
where  the  winds  and  waters  carry  them  ;  the  frosts 
blight  this  section  and  spare  that ;  the  rains  flood 
the  country  in  the  West  and  the  drought  burns  up 
the  vegetation  in  the  East.  And  yet  we  survive 
and  prosper.  Nature  averages  up  well.  We  see 
nothing  like  purpose  or  will  in  her  total  scheme  of 
things,  yet  inside  her  hit-and-miss  methods,  her 
storms  and  tornadoes  and  earthquakes  and  dis 
tempers,  we  see  a  fundamental  benefaction.  If 
it  is  not  good-will,  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing. 
Our  fathers  saw  special  providences,  but  we  see 
only  unchangeable  laws.  To  compare  Nature's 
selection  with  man's  selection  is  like  arguing  from 
184 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

man's  art  to  Nature's  art.  Nature  has  no  art,  no 
architecture,  no  music.  Her  temples,  as  the  poets 
tell  us,  are  the  woods,  her  harps  the  branches  of 
the  trees,  her  minstrels  the  birds  and  insects,  her 
gardens  the  fields  and  waysides  —  all  safe  com 
parisons  for  purposes  of  literature,  but  not  for 
purposes  of  science. 

Man  alone  selects,  or  works  by  a  definite  method. 
Might  we  not  as  well  say  that  Nature  ploughs 
and  plants  and  trims  and  harvests  ?  We  pick  out 
our  favorites  among  plants  and  animals,  those  that 
best  suit  our  purpose.  We  go  straight  to  our 
object,  with  as  little  delay  and  waste  as  possible. 
Not  so  Nature.  Her  course  is  always  a  round 
about  one.  Our  petty  economies  are  no  concern 
of  hers.  Our  choice  selection  of  rich  milkers,  pro 
lific  poultry,  or  heavy-fleeced  sheep  is  with  her 
quickly  sacrificed  for  the  qualities  of  strength  and 
cunning  and  speed,  as  these  alone  have  survival 
value.  Man  wants  specific  results  at  once.  Na 
ture  works  slowly  to  general  results.  Her  army  is 
drilled  only  in  battle.  Her  tools  grow  sharper  in 
the  using.  The  strength  of  her  species  is  the 
strength  of  the  obstacles  they  overcome. 

What  is  called  Darwinism  is  entirely  an  anthro 
pomorphic  view  of  Nature  —  Nature  humanized 
and  doing  as  man  does.  What  is  called  Natural 
Selection  is  man's  selection  read  into  animate 
nature.  We  see  in  nature  what  we  have  to  call 
185 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

intelligence  —  the  adaptation  of  means  to  ends. 
We  see  purpose  in  all  living  things,  but  not  in  the 
same  sense  in  non-living  things.  The  purpose  is 
not  in  the  light,  but  in  the  eye;  in  the  ear,  but 
not  in  the  sound ;  in  the  lungs,  and  not  in  the  air ; 
in  the  stomach,  and  not  in  the  food ;  in  the  various 
organs  of  the  body,  and  not  in  the  forces  that  sur 
round  and  act  upon  it.  We  cannot  say  that  the 
purpose  of  the  clouds  is  to  bring  rain,  or  of  the  sun 
to  give  light  and  warmth,  in  the  sense  that  we  can 
say  it  is  the  purpose  of  the  eyelid  to  protect  the 
eye,  of  the  teeth  to  masticate  the  food,  or  of  the 
varnish  upon  the  leaves  to  protect  the  leaves. 

The  world  was  not  made  for  us,  but  we  are  here 
because  the  world  was  made  as  it  is.  We  are  the 
secondary  fact  and  not  the  primary.  Nature  is 
non-human,  non-moral,  non-religious,  non-scien 
tific,  though  it  is  from  her  that  we  get  our  ideas  of 
all  these  things.  All  parts  and  organs  of  living 
bodies  have,  or  have  had,  a  purpose.  Nature  is 
blind,  but  she  knows  what  she  wants  and  she  gets 
it.  She  is  blind,  I  say,  because  she  is  all  eyes,  and 
sees  through  the  buds  of  her  trees  and  the  rootlets 
of  her  plants  as  well  as  by  the  optic  nerves  in  her 
animals.  And,  though  I  believe  that  the  accumu 
lation  of  variations  is  the  key  to  new  species,  yet 
this  accumulation  is  not  based  upon  outward  utility 
but  upon  an  innate  tendency  to  development  — 
the  push  of  life,  or  creative  evolution,  as  Bergson 
186 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE   INTO  DARWIN 

names  it;  not  primarily  because  the  variations 
are  advantages,  but  because  the  formation  of  a 
new  species  is  such  a  slow  process,  stretches  over 
such  a  period  of  geologic  time,  that  the  slight 
variations  from  generation  to  generation  could 
have  no  survival  value.  The  primary  factor  is 
the  inherent  tendency  to  development.  The  ori 
gin  of  species  is  on  a  scale  of  time  of  enormous 
magnitude.  What  takes  place  among  our  domes 
tic  animals  of  a  summer  day  is  by  no  means  a  safe 
guide  as  to  what  befell  their  ancestors  in  the  abysses 
of  geologic  time.  It  is  true  that  Nature  may  be 
read  in  the  little  as  well  as  in  the  big,  —  Natura 
in  minimis  existat,  —  in  the  gnat  as  well  as  in  the 
elephant;  but  she  cannot  be  read  in  our  yearly 
calendars  as  she  can  in  the  calendars  of  the  geologic 
strata.  Species  go  out  and  species  come  in;  the 
book  of  natural  revelation  opens  and  closes  at 
chance  places,  and  rarely  do  we  get  a  continuous 
record  —  in  no  other  case  more  clearly  than  in  that 
of  the  horse. 

The  horse  was  a  horse,  from  the  first  five-toed 
animal  in  Eocene  times,  millions  of  years  ago, 
through  all  the  intermediate  forms  of  four-toed  and 
three-toed,  down  to  the  one-toed  superb  creature 
of  our  own  day.  Amid  all  the  hazards  and  delays 
of  that  vast  stretch  of  time,  one  may  say,  the  horse- 
impulse  never  faltered.  The  survival  value  of 
the  slight  gains  in  size  and  strength  from  millennium 
187 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

to  millennium  could  have  played  no  part.  It  was 
the  indwelling  necessity  toward  development  that 
determined  the  issue.  This  assertion  does  not 
deliver  us  into  the  hands  of  teleology,  but  is  based 
upon  the  idea  that  ontogeny  and  phylogeny  are 
under  the  same  law  of  growth.  In  the  little  eohip- 
pus  was  potentially  the  horse  we  know,  as  surely 
as  the  oak  is  potential  in  the  acorn,  or  the  bird 
potential  in  the  egg,  whatever  element  of  mystery 
may  enter  into  the  problem. 

In  fields  where  speed  wins,  the  fleetest  are  the 
fittest.  In  fields  where  strength  wins,  the  strongest 
are  the  fittest.  In  fields  where  sense-acuteness 
wins,  the  keenest  of  eye,  ears,  and  nose  are  the 
fittest. 

When  we  come  to  the  race  of  man,  the  fittest  to 
survive,  from  our  moral  and  intellectual  point  of 
view,  is  not  always  the  best.  The  lower  orders  of 
humanity  are  usually  better  fitted  to  survive  than 
the  higher  orders  —  they  are  much  more  prolific 
and  adaptive.  The  tares  are  better  fitted  to  sur 
vive  than  the  wheat.  Every  man's  hand  is  against 
the  weeds,  and  every  man's  hand  gives  a  lift  to  the 
corn  and  the  wheat,  but  the  weeds  do  not  fail. 
There  is  nothing  like  original  sin  to  keep  a  man  or 
a  plant  going.  Emerson's  gardener  was  probably 
better  fitted  to  survive  than  Emerson ;  Newton's 
butler  than  Newton  himself. 

Most  naturalists  will  side  with  Darwin  in  re- 
188 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE   INTO  DARWIN 

jecting  the  idea  of  Asa  Gray,  that  the  stream  of 
variation  has  been  guided  by  a  higher  power,  unless 
they  think  of  the  will  of  this  power  as  inherent  in 
every  molecule  of  matter ;  but  guidance  in  the  usual 
theological  sense  is  not  to  be  thought  of ;  the  princi 
ple  of  guidance  cannot  be  separated  from  the  thing 
guided.  It  recalls  a  parable  of  Charles  Kingsley's 
which  he  related  to  Huxley.  A  heathen  khan  in 
Tartary  was  visited  by  a  pair  of  proselytizing  mool- 
lahs.  The  first  moollah  said,  "  O  Khan,  worship  my 
god.  He  is  so  wise  that  he  made  all  things !  " 
Moollah  Number  Two  said,  "  O  Khan,  worship  my 
god.  He  is  so  wise  that  he  makes  all  things  make 
themselves  !  "  Number  Two  won  the  day. 

IV 

How  often  it  turns  out  that  a  man's  minor  works 
outlive  his  major !  This  is  true  in  both  literature 
and  science,  but  more  often  in  the  former  than  in 
the  latter.  Darwin  furnishes  a  case  in  the  field 
of  science.  He  evidently  looked  upon  his  "  Origin 
of  Species  "  as  his  great  contribution  to  biological 
science ;  but  it  is  highly  probable  that  his  "  Voy 
age  of  the  Beagle  "  will  outlast  all  his  other  books. 
The  "  Voyage  "  is  of  perennial  interest  and  finds 
new  readers  in  each  generation.  I  find  myself  re 
reading  it  every  eight  or  ten  years.  I  have  lately 
read  it  for  the  fourth  time.  It  is  not  an  argument 
or  a  polemic ;  it  is  a  personal  narrative  of  a  disin- 
189 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

terested  yet  keen  observer,  and  is  always  fresh  and 
satisfying.  For  the  first  time  we  see  a  compara 
tively  unknown  country  like  South  America  through 
the  eyes  of  a  born  and  trained  naturalist.  It  is 
the  one  book  of  his  that  makes  a  wide  appeal  and 
touches  life  and  nature  the  most  closely. 

We  may  say  that  Darwin  was  a  Darwinian  from 
the  first,  —  a  naturalist  and  a  philosopher  com 
bined,  —  and  was  predisposed  to  look  at  animate 
nature  in  the  way  his  works  have  since  made  us 
familiar  with. 

In  his  trip  on  the  Beagle  he  saw  from  the  start 
with  the  eyes  of  a  born  evolutionist.  In  South 
America  he  saw  the  fossil  remains  of  the  Toxodon, 
and  observed,  "  How  wonderful  are  the  different 
orders,  at  the  present  time  so  well  separated,  blended 
together  in  the  different  points  of  the  structure 
of  the  Toxodon !  "  All  forms  of  life  attracted 
him.  He  looked  into  the  brine-pans  of  Lymington 
and  found  that  water  with  one  quarter  of  a  pound 
of  salt  to  the  pint  was  inhabited,  and  he  was  led  to 
say :  "  Well  may  we  affirm  that  every  part  of  the 
world  is  habitable !  Whether  lakes  of  brine  or 
those  subterranean  ones  hidden  beneath  volcanic 
mountains,  —  warm  mineral  springs,  —  the  wide 
expanse  and  depth  of  the  ocean,  —  the  upper  regions 
of  the  atmosphere,  and  even  the  surface  of  per 
petual  snow,  —  all  support  organic  beings." 

He  studies  the  parasitical  habit  of  the  cuckoo 
190 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

and  hits  on  an  explanation  of  it.  He  speculates 
why  the  partridges  and  deer  in  South  America 
are  so  tame. 

His  "  Voyage  of  the  Beagle  "  alone  would  insure 
him  lasting  fame.  It  is  a  classic  among  scientific 
books  of  travel.  Here  is  a  traveler  of  a  new  kind  : 
a  natural-history  voyager,  a  man  bent  on  seeing 
and  taking  note  of  everything  going  on  in  nature 
about  him,  in  the  non-human,  as  well  as  in  the 
human  world.  The  minuteness  of  his  observation 
and  the  significance  of  its  subject-matter  are  a 
lesson  to  all  observers.  Darwin's  interests  are  so 
varied  and  genuine.  One  sees  in  this  volume  the 
seed-bed  of  much  of  his  subsequent  work.  He 
was  quite  a  young  man  (twenty-four)  when  he 
made  this  voyage;  he  was  ill  more  than  half  the 
time;  he  was  as  yet  only  an  observer  and  appre- 
ciator  of  Nature,  quite  free  from  any  theories  about 
her  ways  and  methods.  He  says  that  this  was  by 
far  the  most  important  event  of  his  life  and  deter 
mined  his  whole  career.  His  theory  of  descent 
was  already  latent  in  his  mind,  as  is  evinced  by  an 
observation  he  made  about  the  relationship  in 
South  America  between  the  extinct  and  the  liv 
ing  forms.  "  This  relationship,"  he  said,  "  will, 
I  do  not  doubt,  hereafter  throw  more  light  on  the 
appearance  of  organic  beings  on  our  earth,  and 
their  disappearance  from  it,  than  any  other  class 
of  facts." 

191 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

He  looked  into  the  muddy  waters  of  the  sea  off 
the  coast  of  Chile,  and  found  a  curious  new  form  of 
minute  life  —  microscopic  animals  that  exploded 
as  they  swam  through  the  water.  In  South  Amer 
ica  he  saw  an  intimate  relationship  between  the 
extinct  species  of  ant-eaters,  armadillos,  tapirs, 
peccaries,  guanacos,  opossums,  and  so  on,  and  the 
living  species  of  these  animals;  and  he  adds  that 
the  wonderful  relationship  in  the  same  continent 
between  the  dead  and  the  living  would  doubtless 
hereafter  throw  more  light  on  the  appearance  of 
organic  beings  on  our  earth,  and  their  disappear 
ance  from  it,  than  any  other  class  of  facts. 

His  observation  of  the  evidences  of  the  rise  and 
fall  of  thousands  of  feet  of  the  earth  along  the 
Cordilleras  leads  him  to  make  this  rather  startling 
statement :  **  Daily  it  is  forced  home  on  the  mind 
of  the  geologist  that  nothing,  not  even  the  wind 
that  blows,  is  so  unstable  as  the  level  of  the  crust 
of  the  earth." 

There  is  now  and  then  a  twinkle  of  humor  in 
Darwin 's  eyes,  as  when  he  says  that  in  the  high 
altitude  of  the  Andes  the  inhabitants  recommend 
onions  for  the  "  puna,"  or  shortness  of  breath, 
but  that  he  found  nothing  so  good  as  fossil  shells. 

Water  boils  at  such  a  low  temperature  in  the 

high  Andes  that  potatoes  will  not  cook  if  boiled  all 

night.     Darwin   heard   his   guides   discussing   the 

cause.     "  They  had  come  to  the  simple  conclusion 

192 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

that  *  the  cursed  pot '  (which  was  a  new  one)  did 
not  choose  to  boil  potatoes." 

In  all  Darwin's  record  we  see  that  the  book  of 
nature,  which  ordinary  travelers  barely  glance  at, 
he  opened  and  carefully  perused. 


NATURAL  SELECTION  turns  out  to  be  of  only  sec 
ondary  importance.  It  is  not  creative,  but  only 
confirmative.  It  is  a  weeding-out  process ;  it  is 
Nature's  way  of  improving  the  stock.  Its  tend 
ency  is  to  make  species  more  and  more  hardy 
and  virile.  The  weak  and  insufficiently  endowed 
among  all  forms  tend  to  drop  out.  Life  to  all 
creatures  is  more  or  less  a  struggle,  a  struggle  with 
the  environment,  with  the  inorganic  forces,  — 
storm,  heat,  cold,  sterile  land,  and  engulfing  floods,  — 
and  it  is  a  struggle  with  competing  forms  for  food 
and  shelter  and  a  place  in  the  sun.  The  strongest, 
the  most  amply  endowed  with  what  we  call  vitality 
or  power  to  live,  win.  Species  have  come  to  be 
what  they  are  through  this  process.  Immunity 
from  disease  comes  through  this  fight  for  life ;  and 
adaptability  —  through  trial  and  struggle  species 
adapt  themselves,  as  do  our  own  bodies,  to  new 
and  severe  conditions.  The  naturally  weak  fall 
by  the  wayside  as  in  an  army  on  a  forced  march. 

Every   creature   becomes   the    stronger   by   the 
opposition  it  overcomes.     Natural  Selection  gives 
193 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

speed,  where  speed  is  the  condition  of  safety, 
strength  where  strength  is  the  condition,  keenness 
and  quickness  of  sense-perception  where  these  are 
demanded.  Natural  Selection  works  upon  these 
attributes  and  tends  to  perfect  them.  Any  group 
of  men  or  beasts  or  birds  brought  under  any  un 
usual  strain  from  cold,  hunger,  labor,  effort,  will 
undergo  a  weeding-out  process.  Populate  the  land 
with  more  animal  life  than  it  can  support,  or  with 
more  vegetable  forms  than  it  can  sustain,  and  a 
weeding-out  process  will  begin.  A  fuller  measure 
of  vitality,  or  a  certain  hardiness  and  toughness, 
will  enable  some  species  to  hold  on  longer  than 
others,  and,  maybe,  keep  up  the  fight  till  the  strug 
gle  lessens  and  victory  is  won. 

The  flame  of  life  is  easily  blown  out  in  certain 
forms,  and  is  very  tenacious  in  others.  How  un 
equally  the  power  to  resist  cold,  for  instance, 
seems  to  be  distributed  among  plants  and  trees, 
and  probably  among  animals !  One  spring  an  un 
seasonable  cold  snap  in  May  (mercury  28)  killed 
or  withered  about  one  per  cent  of  the  leaves  on  the 
lilacs,  and  one  tenth  of  one  per  cent  of  the  leaves 
of  our  crab-apple  tree.  In  the  woods  around 
Slabsides  I  observed  that  nearly  half  the  plants  of 
Solomon's-seal  (Polygonatum)  and  false  Solomon's- 
seal  (Smilacina)  were  withered.  The  vital  power, 
the  power  to  live,  seems  stronger  in  some  plants 
than  in  others  of  the  same  kind.  I  suppose  this 
194 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

law  holds  throughout  animate  nature.  When  a 
strain  of  any  kind  comes,  these  weaker  ones  drop 
out.  In  reading  the  stories  of  Arctic  explorers,  I 
see  this  process  going  on  among  their  dog-teams : 
some  have  greater  power  of  endurance  than  others. 
A  few  are  constantly  dropping  out  or  falling  by 
the  wayside.  With  an  army  on  a  forced  march 
the  same  thing  happens.  In  the  struggle  for  ex 
istence  the  weak  go  to  the  wall.  Of  course  the 
struggle  among  animals  is  at  least  a  toughening 
process.  It  seems  as  if  the  old  Indian  legend,  that 
the  strength  of  the  foe  overcome  passes  into  the 
victor,  were  true.  But  how  a  new  species  could 
arrive  as  the  result  of  such  struggle  is  past  finding 
out.  Variation  with  all  forms  of  life  is  more  or  less 
constant,  but  it  is  around  a  given  mean.  Only 
those  acquired  characters  are  transmitted  that 
arise  from  the  needs  of  the  organism. 

A  vast  number  of  changes  in  plants  and  animals 
are  superficial  and  in  no  way  vital.  It  is  hard  to 
find  two  leaves  of  the  same  tree  that  will  exactly 
coincide  in  all  their  details;  but  a  difference  that 
was  in  some  way  a  decided  advantage  would  tend 
to  be  inherited  and  passed  along.  It  is  said  that 
the  rabbits  in  Australia  have  developed  a  longer 
and  stronger  nail  on  the  first  toe  of  each  front  foot, 
which  aids  them  in  climbing  over  the  wire  fences. 
The  aye-aye  has  a  specially  adapted  finger  for 
extracting  insects  from  their  hiding-places.  Un- 
195 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

doubtedly  such  things  are  inherited.  The  snow- 
shoes  of  the  partridge  and  rabbit  are  inherited. 
The  needs  of  the  organism  influence  structure. 
The  spines  in  the  quills  in  the  tails  of  woodpeckers, 
and  in  the  brown  creeper,  are  other  cases  in  point. 
The  nuthatch  has  no  spines  on  its  tail,  because  it 
can  move  in  all  directions,  as  well  with  head  down 
as  with  head  up.  I  have  read  of  a  serpent  some 
where  that  feeds  upon  eggs.  As  the  serpent  has 
no  lips  or  distendable  cheeks,  and  as  its  mechan 
ism  of  deglutition  acts  very  slowly,  an  egg  crushed 
in  the  mouth  would  be  mostly  spilled.  So  the 
eggs  are  swallowed  whole;  but  in  the  throat  they 
come  in  contact  with  sharp  tooth-like  spines,  which 
are  not  teeth,  but  downward  projections  from  the 
backbone,  and  which  serve  to  break  the  shells  of 
the  eggs.  Radical  or  vital  variations  are  rare,  and 
we  do  not  witness  them  any  more  than  we  witness 
the  birth  of  a  new  species.  And  that  is  all  there 
is  to  Natural  Selection.  It  is  a  name  for  a  proc 
ess  of  elimination  which  is  constantly  going  on  in 
animate  nature  all  about  us.  It  is  in  no  sense 
creative,  it  originates  nothing,  but  clinches  and 
toughens  existing  forms. 

The  mutation  theory  of  De  Vries  is  a  much  more 
convincing  theory  of  the  origin  of  species  than  is 
Darwin's  Natural  Selection.  If  things  would  only 
mutate  a  little  oftener  !  But  they  seem  very  reluc 
tant  to  do  so.  There  does  seem  to  have  been  some 
196 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

mutation  among  plants,  —  De  Vries  has  discovered 
several  such,  —  but  in  animal  life  where  are  the 
mutants  ?  When  or  where  has  a  new  species  orig 
inated  in  this  way?  Surely  not  during  the  his 
toric  period. 

Fluctuations  are  in  all  directions  around  a  center 
-  the  mean  is  always  returned  to  ;  but  mutations, 
or  the  progressive  steps  in  evolution,  are  diver 
gent  lines  away  from  the  center.  Fluctuations 
are  superficial  and  of  little  significance;  but  mu 
tations,  if  they  occur,  involve  deep-seated,  funda 
mental  factors,  factors  more  or  less  responsive  to 
the  environment,  but  not  called  into  being  by  it. 
Of  the  four  factors  in  the  Darwinian  formula,  — 
variation,  heredity,  the  struggle,  and  natural  se 
lection,  —  variation  is  the  most  negligible ;  it 
furnishes  an  insufficient  handle  for  selection  to 
take  hold  of.  Something  more  radical  must  lead 
the  way  to  new  species. 

As  applied  to  species,  the  fittest  to  survive  is  a 
misleading  term.  All  are  fit  to  survive  from  the 
fact  that  they  do  survive.  In  a  world  where,  as  a 
rule,  the  race  is  to  the  swift  and  the  battle  to  the 
strong,  the  slow  and  the  frail  also  survive  because 
they  do  not  come  in  competition  with  the  swift 
and  the  strong.  Nature  mothers  all,  and  assigns 
to  each  its  sphere. 

The  Darwinians  are  hostile  to  Lamarck  with 
his  inner  developing  and  perfecting  principle,  and, 
197 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

by  the  same  token,  to  Aristotle,  who  is  the  father 
of  the  theory.  They  regard  organic  evolution  as 
a  purely  mechanical  process. 

Variation  can  work  only  upon  a  variable  tend 
ency  —  an  inherent  impulse  to  development.  A 
rock,  a  hill,  a  stream,  may  change,  but  it  is  not 
variable  in  the  biological  sense :  it  can  never  be 
come  anything  but  a  rock,  a  hill,  a  stream ;  but  a 
flower,  an  egg,  a  seed,  a  plant,  a  baby,  can.  What 
I  mean  to  say  is  that  there  must  be  the  primordial 
tendency  to  development  which  Natural  Selection 
is  powerless  to  beget,  and  which  it  can  only  speed 
up  or  augment.  It  cannot  give  the  wing  to  the 
seed,  or  the  spring,  or  the  hook ;  or  the  feather  to 
the  bird ;  or  the  scale  to  the  fish  ;  but  it  can  perfect 
all  these  things.  The  fittest  of  its  kind  does  stand 
the  best  chance  to  survive. 

VI 

AFTER  we  have  Darwin  shorn  of  his  selection 
theories,  what  has  he  left  ?  His  significance  is 
not  lessened.  He  is  still  the  most  impressive 
figure  in  modern  biological  science.  His  attitude 
of  mind,  the  problems  he  tackled,  his  methods  of 
work,  the  nature  and  scope  of  his  inquiries,  together 
with  his  candor,  and  his  simplicity  and  devotion  to 
truth,  are  a  precious  heritage  to  all  mankind. 

Darwin's  work  is  monumental  because  he  be 
longs  to  the  class  of  monumental  men.     The  doc- 
198 


A  CRITICAL  GLANCE  INTO  DARWIN 

trine  of  evolution  as  applied  to  animate  nature 
reached  its  complete  evolution  in  his  mind.  He 
stated  the  theory  in  broader  and  fuller  terms  than 
had  any  man  before  him ;  he  made  it  cover  the 
whole  stupendous  course  of  evolution.  He  showed 
man  once  for  all  an  integral  part  of  the  zob'logic 
system.  He  elevated  natural  history,  or  biology, 
to  the  ranks  of  the  great  sciences,  a  worthy  member 
of  the  triumvirate  —  astronomy,  geology,  biology. 
He  taught  us  how  to  cross-question  the  very  gods 
of  life  in  their  council  chambers;  he  showed  us 
what  significance  attaches  to  the  simplest  facts  of 
natural  history. 

Darwin  impresses  by  his  personality  not  less 
than  by  his  logic  and  his  vast  storehouse  of  obser 
vations.  He  was  a  great  man  before  he  was  a 
great  natural-history  philosopher.  His  patient 
and  painstaking  observation  is  a  lesson  to  all  na 
ture  students.  The  minutest  facts  engaged  him. 
He  studies  the  difference  between  the  stamens  of  the 
same  plant.  He  counted  nine  thousand  seeds,  one 
by  one,  from  artificially  fertilized  pods.  Plants  from 
two  pollens,  he  says,  grow  at  different  rates.  Any 
difference  in  the  position  of  the  pistil,  or  in  the  size 
and  color  of  the  stamens,  in  individuals  of  the  same 
species  grown  together,  was  of  keen  interest  to  him. 

The  best  thing  about  Darwinism  is  Darwin  — 
his  candor,  his  patience,  his  simplicity,  his  devo 
tion  to  truth,  and  his  power  of  observation.  This 
199 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

is  about  what  Professor  T.  H.  Morgan  meant  when 
he  said :  "  It  is  the  spirit  of  Darwinism,  not  its 
formulae,  that  we  proclaim  as  our  best  heritage." 
He  gave  us  a  new  point  of  view  of  the  drama  of 
creation;  he  gave  us  ideas  that  are  applicable  to 
the  whole  domain  of  human  activities.  It  is  true, 
he  was  not  a  pioneer  in  this  field  :  he  did  not  blaze 
the  first  trail  through  this  wilderness  of  biological 
facts  and  records;  rather  was  he  like  a  master- 
engineer  who  surveys  and  establishes  the  great 
highway.  All  the  world  now  travels  along  the 
course  he  established  and  perfected.  He  made  the 
long  road  of  evolution  easy,  and  he  placed  upon 
permanent  foundations  the  doctrine  of  the  animal 
origin  of  man.  He  taught  the  world  to  think  in 
terms  of  evolution,  and  he  pointed  the  way  to  a 
rational  explanation  of  the  diversity  of  living  forms. 


200 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

POPE  said  that  a  middling  poet  was  no  poet  at  all. 
Middling  things  in  art  or  in  any  field  of  human 
endeavor  do  not  arouse  our  enthusiasm,  and  it  is 
enthusiasm  that  fans  the  fires  of  life.  There  are 
all  degrees  of  excellence,  but  in  poetry  one  is  always 
looking  for  the  best.  Pope  himself  holds  a  place 
in  English  literature  which  he  could  not  hold  had 
he  been  only  a  middling  poet.  He  is  not  a  poet  of 
the  highest  order  certainly,  but  a  poet  of  the  third 
or  fourth  order  —  the  poet  of  the  reason,  the  un 
derstanding,  but  not  of  the  creative  imagination. 
It  is  wit  and  not  soul  that  keeps  Pope  alive. 

Nearly  every  age  and  land  has  plenty  of  mid 
dling  poets.  Probably  there  were  never  more  of 
them  in  the  land  than  there  are  to-day.  Scores  of 
volumes  of  middling  verse  are  issued  from  the  press 
every  week.  The  magazines  all  have  middling 
verse;  only  at  rare  intervals  do  they  have  some 
thing  more.  The  May  "  Atlantic,"  for  instance, 
had  a  poem  by  a  (to  me)  comparatively  new  writer, 
Olive  Tilford  Dargan,  that  one  would  hardly  stig 
matize  as  middling  poetry.  Let  the  reader  judge 
201 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

for  himself.     It  is  called  "  Spring  in   the  Study." 
I  quote  only  the  second  part : 

"What  is  this  sudden  gayety  that  shakes  the  grayest  boughs? 

A  voice  is  calling  fieldward  —  'T  is  time  to  start  the  ploughs ! 

To  set  the  furrows  rolling,  while  all  the  old  crows  nod ; 

And  deep  as  life,  the  kernel,  to  cut  the  golden  sod. 

The  pen  —  let  nations  have  it ;  —  we  '11  plough  a  while  for  God. 

"When  half  the  things  that  must  be  done  are  greater  than  our 

art, 
And  half  the  things  that  must  be  done  are  smaller  than  our 

heart, 

And  poorest  gifts  are  dear  to  burn  on  altars  unrevealed, 
Like  music  comes  the  summons,  the  challenge  from  the  weald ! 
'  They  tread  immortal  measures  who  make  a  mellow  field ! ' 

"The  planet's  rather  pleasant,  alluring  in  its  way; 

But  let  the  ploughs  be  idle  and  none  of  us  can  stay. 

Here 's  where  there  is  no  doubting,  no  ghosts  uncertain  stalk, 

A-traveling  with  the  plough  beam,  beneath  the  sailing  hawk, 

Cutting  the  furrow  deep  and  true  where  Destiny  will  walk." 

Lafcadio  Hearn  spoke  with  deep  truth  when  he 
said  that  "  the  measure  of  a  poet  is  the  largeness 
of  thought  which  he  can  bring  to  any  subject,  how 
ever  trifling."  Certainly  Mrs.  Dargan  brings 
this  largeness  of  thought  to  her  subject.  Has  the 
significance  of  the  plough  ever  before  been  so 
brought  out  ?  She  makes  one  feel  that  there  should 
be  a  plough  among  the  constellations.  What  are 
the  chairs  and  harps  and  dippers  in  comparison  ? 

The  poetry  of  mere  talent  is  always  middling 

poetry  —  "  poems   distilled    from   other    poems," 

as  Whitman  says.     The  work  of  a  genius  is  of  a 

different   order.     Most   current    verse   is    merely 

202 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

sweetened  prose  put  up  in  verse  form.  It  serves 
its  purpose;  the  mass  of  readers  like  it.  Nearly 
all  educated  persons  can  turn  it  off  with  little  effort. 
I  have  done  my  share  of  it  myself  —  rhymed 
natural  history,  but  not  poetry.  "  Waiting  "  is 
my  nearest  approach  to  a  true  poem. 

Wordsworth  quotes  Aristotle  as  saying  that 
poetry  is  the  most  philosophical  of  all  writing, 
and  Wordsworth  agrees  with  him.  There  cer 
tainly  can  be  no  great  poetry  without  a  great  phi 
losopher  behind  it  —  a  man  who  has  thought  and 
felt  profoundly  upon  nature  and  upon  life,  as 
Wordsworth  himself  surely  had.  The  true  poet, 
like  the  philosopher,  is  a  searcher  after  truth,  and 
a  searcher  at  the  very  heart  of  things  —  not  cold, 
objective  truth,  but  truth  which  is  its  own  testi 
mony,  and  which  is  carried  alive  into  the  heart  by 
passion.  He  seeks  more  than  beauty,  he  seeks  the 
perennial  source  of  beauty.  The  poet  leads  man 
to  nature  as  a  mother  leads  her  child  there  —  to 
instill  a  love  of  it  into  his  heart.  If  a  poet  adds 
neither  to  my  knowledge  nor  to  my  love,  of  what 
use  is  he?  For  instance,  Poe  does  not  make  me 
know  more  or  love  more,  but  he  delights  me  by  his 
consummate  art.  Bryant's  long  poem  "  The  Ages  " 
has  little  value,  mainly  because  it  is  charged  with 
no  philosophy,  and  no  imaginative  emotion.  His 
"Lines  to  a  Waterfowl"  will  last  because  of  the 
simple,  profound  human  emotion  they  awaken. 
203 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

The  poem  is  marred,  however,  by  the  stanza  that 
he  tacks  on  the  end,  which  strikes  a  note  entirely 
foreign  to  the  true  spirit  of  the  poem.  You  cannot 
by  tacking  a  moral  to  a  poem  give  it  the  philo 
sophical  breadth  to  which  I  have  referred.  "  Than- 
atopsis  "  has  a  solemn  and  majestic  music,  but 
not  the  unique  excellence  of  the  waterfowl  poem. 
Yet  it  may  be  generally  said  of  Bryant  that  he 
has  a  broad  human  outlook  on  life  and  is  free  from 
the  subtleties  and  ingenious  refinements  of  many 
of  our  younger  poets. 

I  know  of  only  three  poets  in  this  century  who 
bring  a  large  measure  of  thought  and  emotion  to 
their  task.  I  refer  to  William  Vaughn  Moody,  to 
John  Russell  McCarthy  (author  of  "  Out-of -Doors  " 
and  "  Gods  and  Devils  "),  and  to  Robert  Loveman, 
best  known  for  his  felicitous  "  Rain  Song,"  a 
poem  too  well  known  to  be  quoted  here.  Any 
poet  who  has  ever  lived  might  have  been  proud  to 
have  written  that  poem.  It  goes  as  lightly  as 
thistle-down,  yet  is  freighted  with  thought.  Its 
philosophy  is  so  sublimated  and  so  natural  and 
easy  that  we  are  likely  to  forget  that  it  has  any 
philosophy  at  all.  The  fifty  or  more  stanzas  of  his 
"  Gates  of  Silence "  are  probably  far  less  well 
known.  Let  me  quote  a  few  of  them : 

"The  races  rise  and  fall, 

The  nations  come  and  go, 
Time  tenderly  doth  cover  all 
With  violets  and  snow. 

204 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

"The  mortal  tide  moves  on 

To  some  immortal  shore, 
Past  purple  peaks  of  dusk  and  dawn. 
Into  the  evermore. 


"All  the  tomes  of  all  the  tribes, 
All  the  songs  of  all  the  scribes, 
All  that  priest  and  prophet  say, 
What  is  it  ?  and  what  are  they  ? 

"Fancies  futile,  feeble,  vain, 
Idle  dream-drift  of  the  brain,  - 
As  of  old  the  mystery 
Doth  encompass  you  and  me. 


"  Old  and  yet  young,  the  jocund  Earth 

Doth  speed  among  the  spheres, 
Her  children  of  imperial  birth 
Are  all  the  golden  years. 

"The  happy  orb  sweeps  on, 

Led  by  some  vague  unrest, 
Some  mystic  hint  of  joys  unborn 
Springing  within  her  breast." 

What  takes  one  in  "The  Gates  of  Silence," 
which,  of  course,  means  the  gates  of  death, 
are  the  large,  sweeping  views.  The  poet  strides 
through  time  and  space  like  a  Colossus  and 


Out  of  his  spendthrift  hands 

The  whirling  worlds  like  pebbles, 

The  meshed  stars  like  sands." 

Loveman's  stanzas  have  not  the  flexibility  and 
freedom  of  those  of  Moody  and  McCarthy,  but 
205 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

they  bring  in  full  measure  the  largeness  of  thought 
which  a  true  poem  requires. 

Some  of  Moody's  poems  rank  with  the  best  in 
the  literature  of  his  time.  He  was  deeply  moved 
by  the  part  we  played  in  the  Spanish-American 
War.  It  was  a  war  of  shame  and  plunder  from 
the  point  of  view  of  many  of  the  noblest  and  most 
patriotic  men  of  the  country.  We  freed  Cuba  from 
the  Spanish  yoke  and  left  her  free ;  but  we  seized 
the  Philippines  and  subdued  the  native  popula 
tion  by  killing  a  vast  number  of  them  —  more 
than  half  of  them,  some  say.  Commercial  ex 
ploitation  inspired  our  policy.  How  eloquently 
Senator  Hoar  of  Massachusetts  inveighed  against 
our  course !  We  promised  the  Filipinos  their 
freedom  —  a  promise  we  have  not  yet  fulfilled. 

Moody's  most  notable  poems  are  "  Gloucester 
Moors/'  "An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation" 
(inspired  by  the  Shaw  Monument  in  Boston,  the 
work  of  Saint-Gaudens),  "The  Brute,"  "The 
Daguerreotype,"  and  "  On  a  Soldier  Fallen  in  the 
Philippines."  In  this  last  poem  throb  and  surge 
the  mingled  emotions  of  pride  and  shame  which 
the  best  minds  in  the  country  felt  at  the  time  — 
shame  at  our  mercenary  course,  and  pride  in  the 
fine  behavior  of  our  soldiers.  It  is  true  we  made 
some  pretense  of  indemnifying  Spain  by  paying 
her  twenty  million  dollars,  which  was  much  like 
the  course  of  a  boy  who  throws  another  boy 
206 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

down  and  forcibly  takes  his  jack-knife  from 
him,  then  gives  him  a  few  coppers  to  salve 
his  wounds.  I  remember  giving  Moody's  poem 
to  Charles  Eliot  Norton  (one  of  those  who  opposed 
the  war),  shortly  after  it  appeared.  He  read  it 
aloud  with  marked  emotion.  Let  me  quote  two 
of  its  stanzas : 

"Toll !   Let  the  great  bells  toll 
Till  the  clashing  air  is  dim. 
Did  we  wrong  this  parted  soul  ? 
We  will  make  it  up  to  him. 
Toll !     Let  him  never  guess 
What  work  we  set  him  to. 
Laurel,  laurel,  yes; 
He  did  what  we  bade  him  do. 
Praise,  and  never  a  whispered  hint  but  the  fight  he  fought  was 

good; 

Never  a  word  that  the  blood  on  his  sword  was  his  country's 
own  heart's-blood. 

"A  flag  for  the  soldier's  bier 
Who  dies  that  his  land  may  live ; 
O,  banners,  banners  here, 
That  he  doubt  not  nor  misgive ! 
That  he  heed  not  from  the  tomb 
The  evil  days  draw  near 
When  the  nation,  robed  in  gloom, 
With  its  faithless  past  shall  strive. 
Let  him  never  dream  that  his  bullet's  scream  went  wide  of  its 

island  mark, 

Home  to  the  heart  of  his  darling  land  where  she  stumbled  and 
sinned  in  the  dark." 

When  I  say  that  every  true  poet  must  have  a 
philosophy,  I  do  not  mean  that  he  must  be  what 
is  commonly  called  a  philosophical  poet;    from 
207 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

such  we  steer  clear.  The  philosophy  in  a  poem 
must  be  like  the  iron  in  the  blood.  It  is  the  iron 
that  gives  color  and  vigor  to  the  blood.  Reduce 
it  and  we  become  an  anaemic  and  feeble  race. 
Much  of  the  popular  poetry  is  anaemic  in  this  re 
spect.  There  is  no  virile  thought  in  it.  All  of 
which  amounts  to  saying  that  there  is  always  a 
great  nature  back  of  a  great  poem. 

The  various  forms  of  verse  are  skillfully  used  by 
an  increasing  number  of  educated  persons,  but 
the  number  of  true  poets  is  not  increasing.  Quite 
the  contrary,  I  fear.  The  spirit  of  the  times  in 
which  we  live  does  not  favor  meditation  and  ab 
sorption  in  the  basic  things  out  of  which  great 
poetry  arises.  ;<  The  world  is  too  much  with 
us."  Yet  we  need  not  be  too  much  discour 
aged.  England  has  produced  Masefield,  and  we 
have  produced  John  Russell  McCarthy,  who  has 
written  the  best  nature  poetry  since  Emerson. 
The  genius  of  a  race  does  not  repeat.  We  shall 
never  again  produce  poets  of  the  type  of  those  that 
are  gone,  and  we  should  not  want  to.  All  we  may 
hope  for  is  to  produce  poets  as  original  and  char 
acteristic  and  genuine  as  those  of  the  past  —  poets 
who  as  truly  express  the  spirit  of  their  time,  as  the 
greater  poets  did  of  theirs  —  not  Emerson  and 
Whitman  over  again,  but  a  wide  departure  from 
their  types. 

Speaking  of  Whitman,  may  we  not  affirm  that 
208 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

it  is  his  tremendous  and  impassioned  philosophy 
suffusing  his  work,  as  the  blood  suffuses  the  body, 
that  keeps  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  forever  fresh?  We 
do  not  go  to  Whitman  for  pretty  flowers  of  poesy, 
although  they  are  there,  but  we  go  to  him  for  his 
attitude  toward  life  and  the  universe,  we  go  to 
stimulate  and  fortify  our  souls  —  in  short,  for  his 
cosmic  philosophy  incarnated  in  a  man. 

What  largeness  of  thought  Tennyson  brings  to 
all  his  themes  !  There  is  plenty  of  iron  in  his  blood, 
though  it  be  the  blood  of  generations  of  culture, 
and  of  an  overripe  civilization.  We  cannot  say 
as  much  of  Swinburne's  poetry  or  prose.  I  do 
not  think  either  will  live.  Bigness  of  words,  and 
fluency,  and  copiousness  of  verse  cannot  make  up 
for  the  want  of  a  sane  and  rational  philosophy. 
Arnold's  poems  always  have  real  and  tangible 
subject  matter.  His  "  Dover  Beach  "  is  a  great 
stroke  of  poetic  genius.  Let  me  return  to  Poe : 
what  largeness  of  thought  did  he  bring  to  his  sub 
jects  ?  Emerson  spoke  of  him  as  "  the  jingle 
man,"  and  Poe,  in  turn,  spoke  of  Emerson  with 
undisguised  contempt.  Poe's  picture  indicates  a 
neurotic  person.  There  is  power  in  his  eyes,  but  the 
shape  of  his  head  is  abnormal,  and  a  profound  mel 
ancholy  seems  to  rest  on  his  very  soul.  What  a 
conjurer  he  was  with  words  and  meters  and  meas 
ures  !  No  substance  at  all  in  his  "  Raven,"  only 
shadows  —  a  wonderful  dance  of  shadows,  all 
209 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

tricks  of  a  verbal  wizard.  "  The  Bells,"  a  really 
powerful  poem,  is  his  masterpiece,  unique  in  Eng 
lish  literature ;  but  it  has  no  intellectual  content. 
Its  appeal  is  to  the  eye  and  ear  alone.  It  has  a 
verbal  splendor  and  a  mastery  over  measure  and 
rhythm  far  beyond  anything  in  Shelley,  or  in  any 
other  poet  of  his  time.  It  is  art  glorified ;  it  is  full 
of  poetic  energy.  No  wonder  foreign  critics  see 
in  Poe  something  far  beyond  that  found  in  any 
other  American,  or  in  any  British  poet ! 

Poe  set  to  work  to  write  "  The  Raven  "  as  de 
liberately  as  a  mechanic  goes  to  work  to  make  a 
machine,  or  an  architect  to  build  a  house.  It  was 
all  a  matter  of  calculation  with  him.  He  did  not 
believe  in  long  poems,  hence  decided  at  the  outset 
that  his  poem  should  not  be  more  than  one  hun 
dred  lines  in  length.  Then  he  asked  himself, 
What  is  the  legitimate  end  and  aim  of  a  poem  ?  and 
answered  emphatically,  Beauty.  The  next  point 
to  settle  was,  What  impression  must  be  made  to 
produce  that  effect  ?  He  decided  that  "  melan 
choly  is  the  most  legitimate  of  all  poetic  tones." 
Why  joy  or  gladness,  like  that  of  the  birds,  is  not 
equally  legitimate,  he  does  not  explain.  Then,  to 
give  artistic  piquancy  to  the  whole,  he  decided  that 
there  must  be  "  some  pivot  upon  which  the  whole 
structure  might  turn."  He  found  that  "  no  one 
had  been  so  universally  employed  as  the  refrain." 
The  burden  of  the  poem  should  be  given  by  the 
210 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

refrain,  and  it  should  be  a  monotone,  and  should 
have  brevity.  Then  his  task  was  to  select  a  single 
word  that  would  be  in  keeping  with  the  melancholy 
at  which  he  was  aiming,  and  this  he  found  in  the 
word  nevermore.  He  next  invented  a  pretext  for 
the  frequent  but  varying  use  of  nevermore.  This 
word  could  not  be  spoken  in  the  right  tone  by  a 
human  being ;  it  must  come  from  an  unreasoning 
creature,  hence  the  introduction  of  the  raven,  an 
ill-omened  bird,  in  harmony  with  the  main  tone 
of  the  poem.  He  then  considered  what  was  the 
most  melancholy  subject  of  mankind,  and  found 
it  was  death,  and  that  that  melancholy  theme  was 
most  poetical  when  allied  to  beauty.  Hence  the 
death  of  a  beautiful  woman  was  unquestionably 
the  most  poetic  topic  in  the  world.  It  was  equally 
beyond  doubt  that  the  lips  best  suited  for  such 
topic  were  those  of  a  bereaved  lover.  Thus  he 
worked  himself  up,  or  rather  back,  to  the  climax 
of  the  poem,  for  he  wrote  the  last  stanza,  in  which 
the  climax  occurs,  first.  His  own  analysis  of  the 
poem  is  like  a  chemist's  analysis  of  some  new  com 
pound  he  has  produced ;  it  is  full  of  technical 
terms  and  subtle  distinctions.  Probably  no  other 
famous  poem  was  turned  out  in  just  that  studied 
and  deliberate  architectural  way  —  no  pretense  of 
inspiration,  or  of  "  eyes  in  fine  frenzy  rolling  " : 
just  skilled  craftsmanship  —  only  this  and  nothing 
more. 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

Arnold's  dictum  that  poetry  is  a  criticism  of  life 
is,  in  a  large  and  flexible  sense,  true.  The  poet  does 
not  criticize  life  as  the  conscious  critic  does,  but  as 
we  unconsciously  do  in  our  most  exalted  moments. 
Arnold,  I  believe,  did  not  appreciate  Whitman, 
but  one  function  of  the  poet  upon  which  Whitman 
lays  emphasis,  is  criticism  of  his  country  and  times. 

"What  is  this  you  bring,  my  America? 
Is  it  uniform  with  my  country? 

Is  it  not  something  that  has  been  better  done  or  told  before? 
Have  you  not  imported  this  or  the  spirit  of  it  in  some  ship  ? 
Is  it  not  a  mere  tale  ?  a  rhyme  ?  a  pettiness  ?  —  is  the  good  old 

cause  in  it  ? 
Has  it  not  dangled  long  at  the  heels  of  the  poets,  politicians, 

literates  of  enemies,  lands? 

Does  it  not  assume  that  what  is  notoriously  gone  is  still  here? 
Does  it  answer  universal  needs?  will  it  improve  manners? 
Can  your  performance  face  the  open  fields  and  the  seaside? 
Will  it  absorb  into  me  as  I  absorb  food,  air,  to  appear  again  in 

my  strength,  gait,  face  ? 
Have  real  employments  contributed  to  it? 
Original  makers,  not  mere  amanuenses?" 

Speaking  of  criticism,  it  occurs  to  me  how  im 
portant  it  is  that  a  poet,  or  any  other  writer,  should 
be  a  critic  of  himself.  Wordsworth,  who  was  a 
really  great  poet,  was  great  only  at  rare  intervals. 
His  habitual  mood  was  dull  and  prosy.  His  sin 
was  that  he  kept  on  writing  during  those  moods, 
grinding  out  sonnets  by  the  hundred  —  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty-two  ecclesiastical  sonnets,  and 
over  half  as  many  on  liberty,  all  very  dull  and 
wooden.  His  mill  kept  on  grinding  whether  it  had 
212 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

any  grist  of  the  gods  to  grind  or  not.  He  told 
Emerson  he  was  never  in  haste  to  publish,  but  he 
seems  to  have  been  in  haste  to  write,  and  wrote  on 
all  occasions,  producing  much  dull  and  trivial 
work.  We  speak  of  a  man's  work  as  being  heavy. 
Let  us  apply  the  test  literally  to  Wordsworth  and 
weigh  his  verse.  The  complete  edition  of  his 
poems,  edited  by  Henry  Reed  and  published  in 
Philadelphia  in  1851,  weighs  fifty-five  ounces; 
the  selection  which  Matthew  Arnold  made  from 
his  complete  works,  and  which  is  supposed  to  con 
tain  all  that  is  worth  preserving,  weighs  ten 
ounces.  The  difference  represents  the  dead  wood. 
That  Wordsworth  was  a  poor  judge  of  his  own  work 
is  seen  in  the  remark  he  made  to  Emerson  that  he 
did  not  regard  his  "  Tintern  Abbey  "  as  highly  as 
some  of  the  sonnets  and  parts  of  "  The  Excursion." 
I  believe  the  Abbey  poem  is  the  one  by  which  he 
will  longest  be  remembered.  "  The  Excursion  " 
is  a  long,  dull  sermon.  Its  didacticism  lies  so 
heavily  upon  it  that  it  has  nearly  crushed  its  po 
etry  —  like  a  stone  on  a  flower. 

All  poetry  is  true,  but  all  truth  is  not  poetry. 
When  Burns  treats  a  natural-history  theme,  as  in 
his  verses  on  the  mouse  and  the  daisy,  and  even  on 
the  louse,  how  much  more  there  is  in  them  than 
mere  natural  history !  With  what  a  broad  and 
tender  philosophy  he  clothes  them !  how  he  iden 
tifies  himself  with  the  mouse  and  regards  himself 
213 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

as  its  fellow  mortal !  So  have  Emerson's  "  Tit 
mouse  "  and  "  Humble-Bee  "  a  better  excuse  for 
being  than  their  natural  history.  So  have  Mc 
Carthy's  "For  a  Bunny"  and  "The  Snake," 
and  "  To  a  Worm." 

THE  SNAKE 

Poor  unpardonable  length. 
All  belly  to  the  mouth, 
Writhe  then  and  wriggle, 
If  there's  joy  in  it ! 

My  heel,  at  least,  shall  spare  you. 

A  little  sun  on  a  stone, 

A  mouse  or  two, 

And  all  that  unreasonable  belly 

Is  happy. 

No  wonder  God  wasn't  satisfied  — 
And  went  on  creating. 

TO  A  WORM 

Do  you  know  you  are  green,  little  worm, 

Like  the  leaf  you  feed  on? 

Perhaps  it  is  on  account  of  the  birds,  who  would  like  to  eat  you. 

But  is  there  any  reason  why  they  shouldn't  eat  you,  little  worm  ? 

Do  you  know  you  are  comical,  little  worm? 
How  you  double  yourself  up  and  wave  your  head, 
And  then  stretch  out  and  double  up  again, 
All  after  a  little  food. 

Do  you  know  you  have  a  long,  strange  name,  little  worm  ? 

I  will  not  tell  you  what  it  is. 

That  is  for  men  of  learning. 

You  —  and  God  —  do  not  care  about  such  things. 

214 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

You  would  wave  about  and  double  up  just  as  much,  and  be 

just  as  futile,  with  it  as  without  it. 

Why  do  you  crawl  about  on  the  top  of  that  post,  little  worm  ? 
It  should  have  been  a  tree,  eh  ?  with  green  leaves  for  eating. 
But  it  isn't,  and  you  have  crawled  about  it  all  day,  looking  for 

a  new  brown  branch,  or  a  green  leaf. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  tears,  little  worm  ? 

Or  take  McCarthy's  lines  to  the  honey  bee : 

"Poor  desolate  betrayer  of  Pan's  trust, 
Who  turned  from  mating  and  the  sweets  thereof. 
To  make  of  labor  an  eternal  lust, 
And  with  pale  thrift  destroy  the  red  of  love, 
The  curse  of  Pan  has  sworn  your  destiny. 
Unloving,  unbeloved,  you  go  your  way 
Toiling  forever,  and  unwittingly 
You  bear  love's  precious  burden  every  day 
From  flower  to  flower  (for  your  blasphemy), 
Poor  eunuch,  making  flower  lovers  gay." 

Or  this : 

GODLINESS 

I  know  a  man  who  says 

That  he  gets  godliness  out  of  a  book. 

He  told  me  this  as  we  sought  arbutus 

On  the  April  hills  — 

Little  color-poems  of  God 

Lilted  to  us  from  the  ground, 

Lyric  blues  and  whites  and  pinks. 

We  climbed  great  rocks, 

Eternally  chanting  their  gray  elegies, 

And  all  about,  the  cadenced  hills 

Were  proud 

With  the  stately  green  epic  of  the  Almighty. 

And  then  we  walked  home  under  the  stars, 
While  he  kept  telling  me  about  his  book 
And  the  godliness  in  it. 

215 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

There  are  many  great  lyrics  in  our  literature 
which  have  no  palpable  or  deducible  philosophy ; 
but  they  are  the  utterance  of  deep,  serious,  imagi 
native  natures,  and  they  reach  our  minds  and 
hearts.  Wordsworth's  "  Daffodils,"  his  "  Cuckoo," 
his  "  Skylark,"  and  scores  of  others,  live  because 
they  have  the  freshness  and  spontaneity  of  birds 
and  flowers  themselves. 

Such  a  poem  as  Gray's  "  Elegy  "  holds  its  own, 
and  will  continue  to  hold  it,  because  it  puts  in 
pleasing  verse  form  the  universal  human  emotion 
which  all  persons  feel  more  or  less  when  gazing 
upon  graves. 

The  intellectual  content  of  Scott's  poems  is  not 
great  but  the  human  and  emotional  content  in 
them  is  great.  A  great  minstrel  of  the  border 
speaks  in  them.  The  best  that  Emerson  could 
say  of  Scott  was  that  "  he  is  the  delight  of  generous 
boys,"  but  the  spirit  of  romance  offers  as  legiti 
mate  a  field  for  the  poet  as  does  the  spirit  of  tran 
scendentalism,  though  yielding,  of  course,  different 
human  values. 

Every  poet  of  a  high  order  has  a  deep  moral  na 
ture,  and  yet  the  poet  is  far  from  being  a  mere 
moralist  — 

"  A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing, 
An  intellectual  all-in-all." 

Every  true  poem  is  an  offering  upon  the  altar 
of  art ;  it  exists  to  no  other  end ;  it  teaches  as  nature 
216 


WHAT  MAKES  A  POEM? 

teaches ;  it  is  good  as  nature  is  good ;  its  art  is  the 
art  of  nature  ;  it  brings  our  spirits  in  closer  and  more 
loving  contact  with  the  universe;  it  is  for  the 
edification  of  the  soul. 


217 


VI 

SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS 
THE  TRANSIENT  AND  THE  PERMANENT 

THE  clouds  are  transient,  but  the  sky  is  permanent. 
The  petals  of  a  flowering  plant  are  transient,  the 
leaves  and  fruit  are  less  so,  and  the  roots  the  least 
transient  of  all.  The  dew  on  the  grass  is  tran 
sient,  as  is  the  frost  of  an  autumn  morning.  The 
snows  and  the  rains  abide  longer.  The  splendors 
of  summer  and  sunrise  and  sunset  soon  pass,  but 
the  glory  of  the  day  lasts.  The  rainbow  vanishes 
in  a  few  moments,  but  the  prismatic  effect  of  the 
drops  of  rain  is  a  law  of  optics.  Colors  fade  while 
texture  is  unimpaired. 

Of  course  change  marks  everything,  living  or 
dead.  Even  the  pole  star  in  astronomic  time 
will  vanish.  But  consider  things  mundane  only. 
How  the  rocks  on  the  seacoast  seem  to  defy  and 
withstand  the  waves  that  beat  against  them ! 
"  Weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave  "  is  a  line  of  Words 
worth  's.  Yet  the  waves  remain  after  the  rocks 
are  gone.  The  sea  knows  no  change  as  the  land 
does.  It  and  the  sky  are  the  two  unchanging 
earth  features. 

218 


SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS 

In  our  own  lives  how  transient  are  our  moments 
of  inspiration,  our  morning  joy,  our  ecstasies  of 
the  spirit !  Upon  how  much  in  the  world  of  art, 
literature,  invention,  modes,  may  be  written  the 
word  "  perishable  "  !  "  All  flesh  is  grass,"  says 
the  old  Book.  Individuals,  species,  races,  pass. 
Life  alone  remains  and  is  immortal. 

POSITIVE  AND  NEGATIVE 

POSITIVE  and  negative  go  hand  in  hand  through 
the  world.  Victory  and  defeat,  hope  and  despair, 
pleasure  and  pain.  Man  is  positive,  woman  is 
negative  in  comparison.  The  day  is  positive,  the 
night  is  negative.  But  it  is  a  pleasure  to  remem 
ber  that  it  is  always  day  in  the  universe. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  does  not  extend 
very  far,  nor  the  shadow  of  any  other  planet. 
Day  is  the  great  cosmic  fact.  The  masses  of  men 
are  negative  to  the  few  master  and  compelling 
minds.  Cold  is  negative,  heat  is  positive,  though 
the  difference  is  only  one  of  degree.  The  negative 
side  of  life,  the  side  of  meditation,  reflection,  and 
reverie,  is  no  less  important  than  the  side  of  action 
and  performance.  Youth  is  positive,  age  is  nega 
tive.  Age  says  No  where  it  used  to  say  Yes.  It 
takes  in  sail.  Life's  hurry  and  heat  are  over,  the 
judgment  is  calm,  the  passions  subdued,  the  stress 
of  effort  relaxed.  Our  temper  is  less  aggressive, 
events  seem  less  imminent. 
219 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

The  morning  is  positive ;  in  the  evening  we  muse 
and  dream  and  take  our  ease,  we  see  our  friends,  we 
unstring  the  bow,  we  indulge  our  social  instincts. 

Optimism  is  positive,  pessimism  is  negative. 
Fear,  suspicion,  distrust  —  are  all  negative. 

On  the  seashore  where  I  write  l  I  see  the  ebbing 
tide,  the  exposed  sand  and  rocks,  the  receding 
waves ;  and  I  know  the  sea  is  showing  us  its  nega 
tive  side ;  there  is  a  lull  in  the  battle.  But  wait  a 
little  and  the  mad  assault  of  the  waves  upon  the 
land  will  be  renewed. 

PALM  AND  FIST 

THE  palm  is  for  friendship,  hospitality,  and  good 
will ;  the  fist  is  to  smite  the  enemies  of  truth  and 
justice. 

How  many  men  are  like  the  clenched  fist  —  pug 
nacious,  disputatious,  quarrelsome,  always  spoil 
ing  for  a  fight ;  a  verbal  fisticuff,  if  not  a  physical 
one,  is  their  delight.  Others  are  more  concilia 
tory  and  peace-loving,  not  forgetting  that  a  soft 
answer  turneth  away  wrath.  Roosevelt  was  the 
man  of  the  clenched  fist ;  not  one  to  stir  up  strife, 
but  a  merciless  hitter  in  what  he  believed  a  just 
cause.  He  always  had  the  fighting  edge,  yet  could 
be  as  tender  and  sympathetic  as  any  one.  This 
latter  side  of  him  is  clearly  shown  in  his  recently 
published  "Letters  to  His  Children."  Lincoln 

1  La  Jolla,  California. 

220 


SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS 

was,  in  contrast,  the  man  with  the  open  palm,  tem 
pering  justice  with  kindness,  and  punishment  with 
leniency.  His  War  Secretary,  Stanton,  wielded  the 
hard  fist. 

PRAISE  AND  FLATTERY 

"  MORE  men  know  how  to  flatter,"  said  Wendell 
Phillips,  "  than  how  to  praise."  To  flatter  is 
easy,  to  condemn  is  easy,  but  to  praise  judiciously 
and  discriminatingly  is  not  easy.  Extravagant 
praise  defeats  itself,  as  does  extravagant  blame. 
A  man  is  rarely  overpraised  during  his  own  time 
by  his  own  people.  If  he  is  an  original,  forceful 
character,  he  is  much  more  likely  to  be  overblamed 
than  overpraised.  He  disturbs  old  ways  and  in 
stitutions.  We  require  an  exalted  point  of  view 
to  take  in  a  great  character,  as  we  do  to  take  in  a 
great  mountain. 

We  are  likely  to  overpraise  and  overblame  our 
presidents.  Lincoln  was  greatly  overblamed  in 
his  day,  but  we  have  made  it  up  to  his  memory. 
President  Wilson  won  the  applause  of  both  politi 
cal  parties  during  his  first  term,  but  how  over 
whelmingly  did  the  tide  turn  against  him  before 
the  end  of  his  second  term  !  All  his  high  and  heroic 
service  (almost  his  martyrdom)  in  the  cause  of 
peace,  and  for  the  league  to  prevent  war,  were 
forgotten  in  a  mad  rush  of  the  populace  to  the 
other  extreme.  But  Wilson  will  assuredly  come 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

to  his  own  in  time,  and  take  his  place  among  the 
great  presidents. 

A  little  of  the  Scottish  moderation  is  not  so  bad ; 
it  is  always  safe.  A  wise  man  will  always  prefer 
unjust  blame  to  fulsome  praise.  Extremes  in  the 
estimation  of  a  sound  character  are  bound  sooner 
or  later  to  correct  themselves.  Wendell  Phillips 
himself  got  more  than  his  share  of  blame  during 
the  antislavery  days,  but  the  praise  came  in  due 
time. 

GENIUS  AND  TALENT 

THE  difference  between  the  two  is  seen  in  nothing 
more  clearly  than  in  the  fact  that  so  many  educated 
persons  can  and  do  write  fairly  good  verse,  in  fact, 
write  most  of  the  popular  newspaper  and  magazine 
poetry,  while  only  those  who  have  a  genius  for 
poetry  write  real  poems.  Could  mere  talent  have 
written  Bryant's  lines  "To  a  Waterfowl  "  ?  or 
his  "  Thanatopsis  "  ?  or  "  June  "  ?  Or  the  small 
volume  of  selections  of  great  poetry  which  Arnold 
made  from  the  massive  works  of  Wordsworth  ? 

Talent  could  have  produced  a  vast  deal  of 
W'ordsworth's  work  —  all  the  "  Ecclesiastical  Son 
nets  "  and  much  of  "  The  Excursion."  Could 
talent  have  written  Walt  Whitman's  "  Leaves  of 
Grass  "  ?  It  could  have  produced  all  that  Whit 
man  wrote  before  that  time  —  all  his  stories  and 
poems.  Give  talent  inspiration  and  it  becomes 
222 


SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS 

genius.    The    grub    is  metamorphosed   into    the 
butterfly. 

"To  do  what  is  impossible  to  Talent  is  the  mark 
of  Genius,"  says  Amiel. 

Talent  may  judge,  Genius  creates.  Talent  keeps 
the  rules,  Genius  knows  when  to  break  them. 

"  You  may  know  Genius,"  says  the  ironical 
Swift,  "  by  this  sign :  All  the  dunces  are  against 
him." 

There  is  fine  talent  in  Everett's  oration  at  Get 
tysburg,  but  what  a  different  quality  spoke  in 
Lincoln's  brief  but  immortal  utterance  on  the 
same  occasion !  Is  anything  more  than  bright, 
alert  talent  shown  in  the  mass  of  Lowell's  work, 
save  perhaps  in  his  "  Biglow  Papers  "  ?  If  he  had 
a  genius  for  poetry,  though  he  wrote  much,  I  can 
not  see  it.  His  tone,  as  Emerson  said,  is  always 
that  of  prose.  The  "  Cathedral  "  is  a  tour  de  force. 
The  line  of  his  so  often  quoted  —  "  What  is  so  rare 
as  a  day  in  June  ?  "  —  is  a  line  of  prose. 

The  lines  "  To  a  Honey  Bee"  by  John  Russell  Mc 
Carthy  are  the  true  gold  of  poetry.  "To  make 
of  labor  an  eternal  lust"  could  never  have  been 
struck  off  by  mere  talent. 

INVENTION  AND  DISCOVERY 

COLUMBUS  discovered  America;    Edison  invented 

the  phonograph,  the  incandescent  light,  and  many 

other  things.     If   Columbus   had   not   discovered 

223 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

America,  some  other  voyager  would  have.  If 
Harvey  had  not  discovered  the  circulation  of  the 
blood,  some  one  else  would  have.  The  wonder  is  that 
it  was  not  discovered  ages  before.  So  far  as  I  know, 
no  one  has  yet  discovered  the  function  of  the  spleen, 
but  doubtless  in  time  some  one  will.  It  is  only 
comparatively  recently  that  the  functions  of  other 
ductless  glands  have  been  discovered.  What  did 
we  know  about  the  thyroid  gland  a  half-century 
ago?  All  the  new  discoveries  in  the  heavens 
waited  upon  the  new  astronomic  methods,  and 
the  end  is  not  yet.  Many  things  in  nature  are 
still  like  an  unexplored  land.  New  remedies  for 
the  ills  of  the  human  body  doubtless  remain  to  be 
found.  In  the  mechanical  world  probably  no  new 
principle  remains  to  be  discovered.  "Keely" 
frauds  have  had  their  day.  In  the  chemical 
world,  the  list  of  primary  elements  will  probably 
not  be  added  to,  though  new  combinations  of  these 
elements  may  be  almost  endless.  In  the  biological 
world,  new  species  of  insects,  birds,  and  mammals 
doubtless  remain  to  be  discovered.  Our  knowl 
edge  of  the  natural  history  of  the  globe  is  far  from 
being  complete. 

But  in  regard  to  inventions  the  case  is  different. 
I  find  myself  speculating  on  such  a  question  as  this  : 
If  Edison  had  never  been  born,  should  we  ever 
have  had  the  phonograph,  or  the  incandescent 
light?  If  Graham  Bell  had  died  in  infancy, 
224 


SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS 

should  we  ever  have  had  the  telephone?  Or 
without  Marconi  should  we  have  had  the  wireless, 
or  without  Morse,  the  telegraph  ?  Or,  to  go  back 
still  farther,  without  Franklin  should  we  ever  have 
known  the  identity  of  lightning  and  electricity  ? 
Who  taught  us  how  to  control  electricity  and  make 
it  do  our  work  ?  One  of  the  questions  of  Job  was, 
"  Canst  thou  send  lightnings,  that  they  may  go, 
and  say  unto  thee,  Here  we  are  ?  "  Yes,  we  can. 
"We  are  ready  to  do  your  bidding,"  they  seem  to 
say,  "  to  run  your  errands,  to  carry  your  burdens,  to 
grind  your  grist,  to  light  your  houses,  to  destroy 
your  enemies." 

The  new  inventions  that  the  future  holds  for  us 
wait  upon  the  new  man.  The  discovery  of  radium 
—  what  a  secret  that  was  !  But  in  all  probability 
had  not  Curie  and  his  wife  discovered  it,  some 
other  investigator  would. 

Shall  we  ever  learn  how  to  use  the  atomic  energy 
that  is  locked  up  in  matter?  Or  how  to  use 
the  uniform  temperature  of  the  globe  ?  Or  the  se 
cret  of  the  glow-worm  and  firefly  —  light  without 
heat? 

The  laws  of  the  conservation  of  energy  and  of 
the  correlation  of  forces  were  discoveries.  The 
art  of  aviation  was  both  an  invention  and  a  dis 
covery.  The  soaring  hawks  and  eagles  we  have 
always  been  familiar  with;  the  Wright  brothers 
invented  the  machine  that  could  do  the  trick. 
225 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

"  Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention/'  As  our 
wants  increase,  new  devices  to  meet  them  appear. 
How  the  diving-bell  answered  a  real  need !  The 
motor-car  also,  and  the  flying-machine.  The 
sewing-machine  is  a  great  time-saver;  the  little 
hooks  in  our  shoes  in  place  of  eyelets  are  great  time- 
savers;  pins,  and  friction  matches,  and  rubber 
overshoes,  and  scores  on  scores  of  other  inventions 
answer  to  real  needs.  Necessity  did  not  call  the 
phonograph  into  being,  nor  the  incandescent  light, 
but  the  high  explosives,  dynamite  and  T.  N.  T. 
(trinitrotoluol)  met  real  wants. 

The  Great  War  with  its  submarines  stimulated 
inventors  to  devise  weapons  to  cope  with  them. 
Always  as  man's  hand  and  eyes  and  ears  have 
needed  reenforcing  or  extending,  his  wit  has  come 
to  his  rescue.  In  fact,  his  progress  has  been  con 
tingent  upon  this  very  fact.  His  necessities  and 
his  power  of  invention  react  upon  one  another; 
the  more  he  invents,  the  more  he  wants,  and  the 
more  he  wants,  the  more  he  invents. 

TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

I  WAS  saying  to  myself,  Why  do  not  all  literary 
men  go  to  the  country  to  do  their  work,  where  they 
can  have  health,  peace,  and  solitude?  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  there  are  many  men  of  many 
minds,  and  that  many  need  to  be  in  the  thick  of 
life ;  they  get  more  stimulus  out  of  people  than  out 
226 


SHORT  STUDIES  IN   CONTRASTS 

of  nature.  The  novelist  especially  needs  to  be  in 
touch  with  multitudes  of  men  and  women.  But 
the  poet  and  the  philosopher  will  usually  prosper 
better  in  the  country.  A  man  like  myself,  who  is 
an  observer  and  of  a  meditative  cast,  does  better 
in  the  country.  Emerson,  though  city  born  and 
bred,  finally  settled  in  the  country.  Whitman, 
on  the  other  hand,  loved  "  populous  pavements.'* 
But  he  was  at  home  anywhere  under  the  stars. 
He  had  no  study,  no  library,  no  club,  other  than 
the  street,  the  beach,  the  hilltop,  and  the  marts  of 
men.  Mr.  Howells  was  country-born,  but  came 
to  the  city  for  employment  and  remained  there. 
Does  not  one  wish  that  he  had  gone  back  to  his 
Ohio  boyhood  home?  It  was  easy  for  me  to  go 
back  because  I  came  of  generations  of  farmer  folk. 
The  love  of  the  red  soil  was  in  my  blood.  My  na 
tive  hills  looked  like  the  faces  of  my  father  and 
mother.  I  could  never  permanently  separate  my 
self  from  them.  I  have  always  had  a  kind  of 
chronic  homesickness.  Two  or  three  times  a  year 
I  must  revisit  the  old  scenes.  I  have  had  a  land- 
surveyor  make  a  map  of  the  home  farm,  and  I  have 
sketched  in  and  colored  all  the  different  fields  as  I 
knew  them  in  my  youth.  I  keep  the  map  hung 
up  in  my  room  here  in  California,  and  when  I  want 
to  go  home,  I  look  at  this  map.  I  do  not  see  the 
paper.  I  see  fields  and  woods  and  stone  walls  and 
paths  and  roads  and  grazing  cattle.  In  this  field 
227 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

I  used  to  help  make  hay ;  in  this  one  I  wore  my 
fingers  sore  picking  up  stones  for  these  stone  walls ; 
in  this  I  planted  corn  and  potatoes  with  my  broth 
ers.  In  these  maple  woods  I  helped  make  sugar 
in  the  spring;  in  these  I  killed  my  first  ruffed 
grouse.  In  this  field  I  did  my  first  ploughing,  with 
thoughts  of  an  academy  in  a  neighboring  town  at 
the  end  of  every  furrow.  In  this  one  I  burned  the 
dry  and  decayed  stumps  in  the  April  days,  with 
my  younger  brother,  and  a  spark  set  his  cap  on 
fire.  In  this  orchard  I  helped  gather  the  apples 
in  October.  In  this  barn  we  husked  the  corn  in 
the  November  nights.  In  this  one  Father  sheared 
the  sheep,  and  Mother  picked  the  geese.  My  pa 
ternal  grandfather  cleared  these  fields  and  planted 
this  orchard.  I  recall  the  hired  man  who  worked 
for  us  during  my  time,  and  every  dog  my  father 
had,  and  my  adventures  with  them,  hunting  wood- 
chucks  and  coons.  All  these  things  and  memories 
have  been  valuable  assets  in  my  life.  But  it  is 
well  that  not  all  men  have  my  strong  local  at 
tachments.  The  new  countries  would  never  get 
settled.  My  forefathers  would  never  have  left 
Connecticut  for  the  wilderness  of  the  Catskills. 

As  a  rule,  however,  we  are  a  drifting,  cosmopolitan 
people.  We  are  easily  transplanted ;  we  do  not 
strike  our  roots  down  into  the  geology  of  long-gone 
time. 

I  often  wonder  how  so  many  people  of  the  Old 
228 


SHORT  STUDIES  IN  CONTRASTS 

World  can  pull  themselves  up  and  migrate  to 
America  and  never  return.  The  Scots,  certainly 
a  home-loving  race,  do  it,  and  do  not  seem  to  suffer 
from  homesickness. 


229 


VII 
DAY  BY  DAY 

WE  often  hear  it  said  of  a  man  that  he  was  born 
too  early,  or  too  late,  but  is  it  ever  true  ?  If  he  is 
behind  his  times,  would  he  not  have  been  behind 
at  whatever  period  he  had  been  born?  If  he  is 
ahead  of  his  times,  is  not  the  same  thing  true  ?  In 
the  vegetable  world  the  early  flowers  and  fruit 
blossoms  are  often  cut  off  by  the  frost,  but  not  so 
in  the  world  of  man.  Babies  are  in  order  at  any 
time.  Is  a  poet,  or  a  philosopher,  ever  born  too 
late?  or  too  early?  If  Emerson  had  been  born  a 
century  earlier,  his  heterodoxy  would  have  stood 
in  his  way;  but  in  that  case  he  would  not  have 
been  a  heretic.  Whitman  would  have  had  to  wait 
for  a  hearing  at  whatever  period  he  was  born.  He 
said  he  was  willing  to  wait  for  the  growth  of  the 
taste  for  himself,  and  it  finally  came.  Emerson's 
first  thin  volume  called  "  Nature  "  did  not  sell  the 
first  edition  of  five  hundred  copies  in  ten  years, 
but  would  it  have  been  different  at  any  other  time  ? 
A  piece  of  true  literature  is  not  superseded.  The 
fame  of  man  may  rise  and  fall,  but  it  lasts.  Was 
Watt  too  early  with  his  steam-engine,  or  Morse 
230 


DAY  BY  DAY 

too  early  with  his  telegraph?  Or  Bell  too  early 
with  his  telephone?  Or  Edison  with  his  phono 
graph  or  his  incandescent  light?  Or  the  Wright 
brothers  with  their  flying-machine?  Or  Henry 
Ford  with  his  motor-car  ?  Before  gasolene  was  dis 
covered  they  would  have  been  too  early,  but  then 
their  inventions  would  not  have  materialized. 

The  world  moves,  and  great  men  are  the  springs 
of  progress.  But  no  man  is  born  too  soon  or  too 
late. 

A  fadeless  flower  is  no  flower  at  all.  How  Na 
ture  ever  came  to  produce  one  is  a  wonder.  Would 
not  paper  flowers  do  as  well  ? 

The  most  memorable  days  in  our  lives  are 
the  days  when  we  meet  a  great  man. 

How  stealthy  and  silent  a  thing  is  that  terrible 
power  which  we  have  under  control  in  our  homes, 
yet  which  shakes  the  heavens  in  thunder  !  It  comes 
and  goes  as  silently  as  a  spirit.  In  fact,  it  is 
nearer  a  spirit  than  anything  else  known  to  us. 
We  touch  a  button  and  here  it  is,  like  an  errand- 
boy  who  appears  with  his  cap  in  his  hand  and 
meekly  asks,  "  What  will  you  have  ?  " 

A  few  days  ago  I  was  writing  of  meteoric  men. 
But  are  we  not  all  like  meteors  that  cut  across  the 
231 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

sky  and  are  quickly  swallowed  up  by  the  darkness 
—  some  of  us  leaving  a  trail  that  lasts  a  little 
longer  than  others,  but  all  gone  in  a  breath  ? 

Our  great  pulpit  orator  Beecher,  how  little  he 
left  that  cold  print  does  not  kill !  As  a  young  man 
I  used  nearly  to  run  my  legs  off  to  get  to  Plymouth 
Church  before  the  doors  were  closed.  Under  his 
trumpet-like  voice  I  was  like  a  reed  bent  by  the 
wind,  but  now  when  in  a  book  made  up  of  quota 
tions  I  see  passages  from  his  sermons,  they  seem 
thin  and  flimsy.  Beecher's  oratory  was  all  for 
the  ear  and  not  for  the  eye  and  mind.  In  truth, 
is  the  world  indebted  to  the  pulpit  for  much  good 
literature?  Robertson's  sermons  can  be  read  in 
the  library,  and  there  are  others  of  the  great  Eng 
lish  divines.  But  oratory  is  action  and  passion. 
"  Great  volumes  of  animal  heat,"  Emerson  names 
as  one  of  the  qualities  of  the  orator. 

The  speeches  of  Wendell  Phillips  will  bear  print 
because  his  oratory  was  of  the  quiet,  conversational 
kind.  Webster's,  of  course,  stand  the  test  of  print, 
but  do  Clay's  or  Calhoun's  ?  In  our  time  oratory, 
as  such,  has  about  gone  out.  Rarely  now  do  we 
hear  the  eagle  scream  in  Congress  or  on  the  plat 
form.  Men  aim  to  speak  earnestly  and  convinc 
ingly,  but  not  oratorically.  President  Wilson  is 
a  very  convincing  speaker,  but  he  indulges  in  no 
oratory.  The  one  who  makes  a  great  effort  to  be 
eloquent  always  fails.  Noise  and  fury  and  over- 
232 


DAY  BY  DAY 

emphasis  are  not  eloquent.  "  True  eloquence/' 
says  Pascal,  "  scorns  eloquence." 

There  is  no  moral  law  in  nature,  but  there  is 
that  out  of  which  the  moral  law  arose.  There  is 
no  answer  to  prayer  in  the  heavens  above,  or  in 
the  earth  beneath,  except  in  so  far  as  the  attitude 
of  sincere  prayer  is  a  prophecy  of  the  good  it  pleads 
for.  Prayer  for  peace  of  mind,  for  charity,  for 
gratitude,  for  light,  for  courage,  is  answered  in  the 
sincere  asking.  Prayer  for  material  good  is  often 
prayer  against  wind  and  tide,  but  wind  and  tide 
obey  those  who  can  rule  them. 

Our  ethical  standards  injected  into  world-his 
tory  lead  to  confusion  and  contradiction.  Intro 
duced  into  the  jungle,  they  would  put  an  end  to 
life  there ;  introduced  into  the  sea,  they  would  put 
an  end  to  life  there ;  the  rule  that  it  is  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive  would  put  an  end  to  all 
competitive  business.  Our  ethical  standards  are 
narrow,  artificial,  and  apply  only  to  civilized  com 
munities.  Nations  have  rarely  observed  them  till 
the  present  day. 

If  the  world  is  any  better  for  my  having  lived 
in  it,  it  is  because  I  have  pointed  the  way  to  a  sane 
and  happy  life  on  terms  within  reach  of  all,  in  my 
love  and  joyous  acceptance  of  the  works  of  Nature 
about  me.  I  have  not  tried,  as  the  phrase  is,  to 
lead  my  readers  from  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God, 
233 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

because  I  cannot  separate  the  one  from  the  other. 
If  your  heart  warms  toward  the  visible  creation, 
and  toward  your  fellow  men,  you  have  the  root  of 
the  matter  in  you.  The  power  we  call  God  does 
not  sustain  a  mechanical  or  secondary  relation  to 
the  universe,  but  is  vital  in  it,  or  one  with  it.  To 
give  this  power  human  lineaments  and  attributes, 
as  our  fathers  did,  only  limits  and  belittles  it.  And 
to  talk  of  leading  from  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God 
is  to  miss  the  God  that  throbs  in  every  spear  of 
grass  and  vibrates  in  the  wing  of  every  insect 
that  hums.  The  Infinite  is  immanent  in  this 
universe. 

"The  faith  that  truth  exists"  is  the  way  that 
William  James  begins  one  of  his  sentences.  Of 
course  truth  exists  where  the  mind  of  man  exists. 
A  new  man  and  there  is  new  truth.  Truth,  in  this 
sense,  is  a  way  of  looking  at  things  that  is  agreeable, 
or  that  gives  satisfaction  to  the  human  mind. 
Truth  is  not  a  definite  fixed  quantity,  like  the  gold 
or  silver  of  a  country.  It  is  no  more  a  fixed  quan 
tity  than  is  beauty.  It  is  an  experience  of  the 
human  mind.  Beauty  and  truth  are  what  we 
make  them.  We  say  the  world  is  full  of  beauty. 
What  we  mean  is  that  the  world  is  full  of  things 
that  give  us  the  pleasure,  or  awaken  in  us  the  sen 
timent  which  we  call  by  that  name. 

The  broadest  truths  are  born  of  the  broadest 
234 


DAY  BY  DAY 

minds.     Narrow  minds  are  so  named  from  their 
narrow  views  of  things. 

Pilate's  question,  "What  is  Truth?"  sets  the 
whole  world  by  the  ears.  The  question  of  right 
and  wrong  is  another  thing.  Such  questions  refer 
to  action  and  the  conduct  of  our  lives.  In  reli 
gion,  in  politics,  in  economics,  in  sociology,  what 
is  truth  to  one  man  may  be  error  to  another.  We 
may  adopt  a  course  of  action  because  it  seems  the 
more  expedient.  Debatable  questions  have  two 
sides  to  them.  In  the  moral  realm  that  is  true 
which  is  agreeable  to  the  largest  number  of  com 
petent  judges.  A  mind  that  could  see  further 
and  deeper  might  reverse  all  our  verdicts.  To  be 
right  on  any  question  in  the  moral  realm  is  to  be 
in  accord  with  that  which  makes  for  the  greatest 
good  to  the  greatest  number.  In  our  Civil  War 
the  South  believed  itself  right  in  seceding  from  the 
Union;  the  North,  in  fighting  to  preserve  the 
Union.  Both  sections  now  see  that  the  North 
had  the  larger  right.  The  South  was  sectional, 
the  North  national.  Each  of  the  great  political 
parties  thinks  it  has  a  monopoly  of  the  truth,  but 
the  truth  usually  lies  midway  between  them. 
Questions  of  right  and  wrong  do  not  necessarily 
mean  questions  of  true  and  false.  "  There  is 
nothing  either  good  or  bad,"  says  Hamlet,  "  but 
thinking  makes  it  so."  This  may  be  good  Chris 
tian  Science  doctrine,  but  it  is  doubtful  philosophy. 
235 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Yesterday,  as  I  stood  on  the  hill  above  Slab- 
sides  and  looked  over  the  landscape  dotted  with 
farms  just  greening  in  the  April  sun,  the  thought 
struck  me  afresh  that  all  this  soil,  all  the  fertile  fields, 
all  these  leagues  on  leagues  of  sloping  valleys  and 
rolling  hills  came  from  the  decay  of  the  rocks,  and 
that  the  chief  agent  in  bringing  about  this  decay 
and  degradation  was  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
—  that  without  the  rain  through  the  past  geologic 
ages,  the  scene  I  looked  upon  would  have  been 
only  one  wild  welter  of  broken  or  crumpled  rocky 
strata,  not  a  green  thing,  not  a  living  thing,  should 
I  have  seen. 

In  the  Hawaiian  Islands  one  may  have  proof  of 
this  before  his  eyes.  On  one  end  of  the  island  of 
Maui,  the  rainfall  is  very  great,  and  its  deep  valleys 
and  high  sharp  ridges  are  clothed  with  tropical 
verdure,  while  on  the  other  end,  barely  ten  miles 
away,  rain  never  falls,  and  the  barren,  rocky  deso 
lation  which  the  scene  presents  I  can  never  for 
get.  No  rain,  no  soil ;  no  soil,  no  life. 

We  are,  therefore,  children  of  the  rocks;  the 
rocks  are  our  mother,  and  the  rains  our  father. 

When  the  stream  of  life,  through  some  favor 
ing  condition,  breaks  through  its  natural  checks  and 
bounds,  and  inundates  and  destroys  whole  prov 
inces   of   other  forms,   as   when   the   locusts,   the 
236 


DAY  BY  DAY 

forest-worms,  the  boll-weevil,  the  currant-worm, 
the  potato  beetle,  unduly  multiply  and  devastate 
fields  and  forests  and  the  farmer's  crops,  what  do 
we  witness  but  Nature's  sheer  excess  and  intem 
perance?  Life  as  we  usually  see  it  is  the  result 
of  a  complex  system  of  checks  and  counter-checks. 
The  carnivorous  animals  are  a  check  on  the  her 
bivorous  ;  the  hawks  and  owls  are  a  check  on  the 
birds  and  fowls ;  the  cats  and  weasels  are  a  check 
on  the  small  rodents,  which  are  very  prolific.  The 
different  species  of  plants  and  trees  are  a  check 
upon  one  another. 

I  think  the  main  reason  of  the  abundance  of 
wealth  in  the  country  is  that  every  man,  equipped 
as  he  is  with  so  many  modern  scientific  appliances 
and  tools,  is  multiplied  four  or  five  times.  He  is 
equal  to  that  number  of  men  in  his  capacity  to  do 
things  as  compared  with  the  men  of  fifty  or  sev 
enty  years  ago.  The  farmer,  with  his  mowing- 
machine,  his  horse-rake,  his  automobile,  his  tractor 
engine  and  gang  ploughs  or  his  sulky  ploughs,  his 
hay-loader,  his  corn-planter,  and  so  on,  does  the 
work  of  many  men.  Machinery  takes  the  place 
of  men.  Gasolene  and  kerosene  oil  give  man  a 
great  advantage.  Dynamite,  too,  —  what  a  giant 
that  is  in  his  service !  The  higher  cost  of  living 
does  not  offset  this  advantage. 

The  condition  in  Europe  at  this  time  is  quite 
237 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

different :  there  the  energies  of  men  have  been  di 
rected  not  to  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  but  to 
the  destruction  of  wealth.  Hence,  while  the  war 
has  enriched  us,  it  has  impoverished  Europe. 

Why  are  women  given  so  much  more  to  orna 
ments  and  superfluities  in  dress  and  finery  than 
men?  In  the  animal  kingdom  below  man,  save 
in  a  few  instances,  it  is  the  male  that  wears  the 
showy  decorations.  The  male  birds  have  the 
bright  plumes ;  the  male  sheep  have  the  big  horns ; 
the  stag  has  the  antlers;  the  male  lion  has  the 
heavy  mane ;  the  male  firefly  has  wings  and  car 
ries  the  lamp.  With  the  barnyard  fowl  the  male 
has  the  long  spurs  and  the  showy  comb  and  wat 
tles.  In  the  crow  tribe,  the  male  cannot  be  dis 
tinguished  from  the  female,  nor  among  the  fly 
catchers,  nor  among  the  snipes  and  plovers.  But 
when  we  come  to  the  human  species,  and  especially 
among  the  white  races,  the  female  fairly  runs  riot  in 
ornamentation.  If  it  is  not  to  attract  the  male,  what 
is  it  for  ?  It  has  been  pretty  clearly  shown  that  what 
Darwin  calls  "  sexual  selection"  plays  no  part. 
Woman  wishes  to  excite  the  passion  of  love.  She  has 
an  instinct  for  motherhood ;  the  perpetuity  of  the 
species  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  Woman  knows 
how  to  make  her  dress  alluring,  how  to  make  it 
provocative,  how  much  to  reveal,  how  much  to 
conceal.  A  certain  voluptuousness  is  the  ambition 
238 


DAY  BY  DAY 

of  all  women ;  anything  but  to  be  skinny  and  raw- 
boned.  She  does  not  want  to  be  muscular  and 
flat-chested,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  to  be  over- 
stout,  but  she  prays  for  the  flowing  lines  and 
the  plumpness  that  belong  to  youth.  A  lean  man 
does  not  repel  her,  nor  a  rugged,  bony  frame. 
Woman's  garments  are  of  a  different  texture  and 
on  a  different  scale  than  those  of  man,  and  much 
more  hampering.  Her  ruffles  and  ribbons  and 
laces  all  play  their  part.  Her  stockings  even  are 
a  vital  problem,  more  important  than  her  religion. 
We  do  not  care  where  she  worships  if  her  dress 
is  attractive.  Emerson  reports  that  a  lady  said 
to  him  that  a  sense  of  being  well-dressed  at  church 
gave  a  satisfaction  which  religion  could  not  give. 

With  man  the  male  defends  and  safeguards  the 
female.  True  that  among  savage  tribes  he  makes 
a  slave  of  her,  but  in  the  white  races  he  will  de 
fend  her  with  his  life.  She  does  not  take  up  arms, 
she  does  not  go  to  sea.  She  does  not  work  in 
mines,  or  as  a  rule  engage  in  the  rough  work  of 
the  world.  In  Europe  she  works  in  the  field,  and 
we  have  had  farmerettes  in  this  country,  but  I 
know  of  no  feminine  engineers  or  carpenters  or 
stone  masons.  There  have  been  a  few  women 
explorers  and  Alpine  climbers,  and  investigators 
in  science,  but  only  a  few.  The  discovery  of  ra 
dium  is  chiefly  accredited  to  a  woman,  and  women 
have  a  few  valuable  inventions  to  their  credit.  I 
239 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

saw  a  valuable  and  ingenious  machine,  in  a  great 
automobile  factory,  that  was  invented  by  a  woman. 
Now  that  woman  has  won  the  franchise  in  this 
country,  we  are  waiting  to  see  if  politics  will  be 
purified. 

The  "  weaker  sex,"  surely.  How  much  easier 
do  women  cry  than  men !  how  much  more  easily 
are  they  scared !  And  yet,  how  much  more  pain 
they  can  endure !  And  how  much  more  devoted 
are  they  to  their  children  ! 

Why  does  any  extended  view  from  a  mountain- 
top  over  a  broad  landscape,  no  matter  what  the 
features  of  that  landscape,  awaken  in  us  the  emo 
tion  of  the  beautiful  ?  Is  it  because  the  eye  loves 
a  long  range,  a  broad  sweep?  Or  do  we  have  a 
sense  of  victory?  The  book  of  the  landscape  is 
now  open  before  us,  and  we  can  read  it  page  after 
page.  All  these  weary  miles  where  we  tramped, 
and  where  the  distance,  as  it  were,  was  in  ambush, 
we  now  command  at  a  glance.  Big  views  expand 
the  mind  as  deep  inhalations  of  air  expand  the 
lungs. 

Yesterday  I  stood  on  the  top  of  Grossmont,1 

probably   a   thousand  feet  above   the  landscape, 

and  looked  out  over  a  wide  expanse  of  what  seemed 

to  be  parched,  barren   country ;  a   few  artificial 

lakes  or  ponds  of  impounded  rains,  but  not  a  green 

1  In  San  Diego  County,  California. 

240 


DAY  BY  DAY 

thing  in  sight,  and  yet  I  was  filled  with  pleasurable 
emotion.  I  lingered  and  lingered  and  gazed  and 
gazed.  The  eye  is  freed  at  such  times,  like  a 
caged  bird,  and  darts  far  and  near  without  hin 
drance. 

"The  wings  of  time  are  black  and  white, 
Pied  with  morning  and  with  night." 

Thus  do  we  objectify  that  which  has  no  objec 
tive  existence,  but  is  purely  a  subjective  experience. 
Do  we  objectify  light  and  sound  in  the  same  way  ? 
No.  One  can  conceive  of  the  vibrations  in  the 
ether  that  give  us  the  sensation  of  light,  and  in  the 
air  that  give  us  sound.  These  vibrations  do  not 
depend  upon  our  organs.  Time  and  tide,  we  say, 
wait  for  no  man.  Certainly  the  tide  does  not,  as 
it  has  a  real  objective  existence.  But  time  does 
not  wait  or  hurry.  It  neither  lags  nor  hastens. 
Yesterday  does  not  exist,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  the 
Now,  for  that  matter.  Before  we  can  say  the  mo 
ment  has  come,  it  is  gone.  The  only  change 
there  is  is  in  our  states  of  consciousness.  How 
the  hours  lag  when  we  are  waiting  for  a  train, 
and  how  they  hurry  when  we  are  happily  em 
ployed  !  Can  we  draw  a  line  between  the  past 
and  the  present?  Can  you  find  a  point  in  the 
current  of  the  stream  that  is  stationary  ?  We  speak 
of  being  lavish  of  time  and  of  husbanding  time,  of 
improving  time,  and  so  on.  We  divide  it  into 
241 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

seconds  and  minutes,  hours  and  days,  weeks,  and 
months,  and  years.  Civilized  man  is  compelled  to 
do  this ;  he  lives  and  works  by  schedule,  but  it  is 
his  states  of  consciousness  that  he  divides  and 
measures.  "  Time  is  but  a  stream  I  go  fishing 
in,"  says  Thoreau.  The  stream  goes  by,  but  the 
fish  stay.  The  river  of  Time,  the  tooth  of  Time 
-  happy  comparisons. 

"  I  wasted  time  and  now  time  wastes  me,"  says 
Shakespeare.  "  I  have  no  time."  "  You  have 
all  there  is,"  replied  the  old  Indian. 

If  time,  like  money,  could  be  hoarded  up,  we 
could  get  all  our  work  done.  Is  there  any  time 
outside  of  man  ?  The  animals  take  no  note  of  time. 

That  is  a  good  saying  of  Juvenal's,  "  He  who 
owns  the  soil,  owns  up  to  the  sky."  So  is  this  of 
Virgil's,  "  Command  large  fields,  but  cultivate  small 
ones." 

Can  there  be  any  theory  or  doctrine  not  con 
nected  with  our  practical  lives  so  absurd  that  it 
will  not  be  accepted  as  true  by  many  people? 
How  firmly  was  a  belief  in  witchcraft  held  by  whole 
populations  for  a  generation !  My  grandfather  be 
lieved  in  it,  and  in  spooks  and  hobgoblins. 

The  belief  in  alchemy  still  prevails  —  that  the 
baser  metals,  by  the  aid  of  the  philosopher's  stone, 
can  be  transmuted  into  gold  and  silver.  Quite 
242 


DAY  BY  DAY 

recently  there  was  a  school  in  a  large  town  in  Cal 
ifornia  for  teaching  alchemy.  As  it  was  a  failure, 
its  professor  was  involved  in  litigation  with  his 
pupils.  I  believe  the  pupils  were  chiefly  women. 

There  is  a  sect  in  Florida  that  believe  that  we 
live  on  the  inside  of  a  hollow  sphere,  instead  of  on  the 
outside  of  a  revolving  globe.  I  visited  the  com 
munity  with  Edison,  near  Fort  Myers,  several 
years  ago.  Some  of  the  women  were  fine- 
looking.  One  old  lady  looked  like  Martha  Wash 
ington,  but  the  men  all  looked  "as  if  they  had  a 
screw  loose  somewhere."  They  believe  that  the 
sun  and  moon  and  all  the  starry  hosts  of  heaven 
revolve  on  the  inside  of  this  hollow  sphere.  All 
our  astronomy  goes  by  the  board.  They  look 
upon  it  as  puerile  and  contemptible.  The  founder 
of  the  sect  had  said  he  would  rise  from  the  dead 
to  confirm  its  truth.  His  disciples  kept  his  body 
till  the  Board  of  Health  obliged  them  to  bury  it. 

If  any  one  were  seriously  to  urge  that  we  really 
walk  on  our  heads  instead  of  our  heels,  and  cite 
our  baldness  as  proof,  there  are  persons  who  would 
believe  him.  It  has  been  urged  that  flight  to  the 
moon  in  an  aeroplane  is  possible  —  the  want  of  air 
is  no  hindrance !  The  belief  in  perpetual  motion 
is  not  yet  dead.  Many  believe  that  snakes  charm 
birds.  But  it  has  been  found  that  a  stuffed  snake- 
skin  will  "  charm  "  birds  also  —  the  bird  is  hyp 
notized  by  its  own  fear. 

243 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

What  has  become  of  the  hermits?  —  men 
and  women  who  preferred  to  live  alone,  hold 
ing  little  or  no  intercourse  with  their  fellows  ?  In 
my  youth  I  knew  of  several  such.  There  was  old 
Ike  Keator,  who  lived  in  a  little  unpainted  house 
beside  the  road  near  the  top  of  the  mountain  where 
we  passed  over  into  Batavia  Kill.  He  lived  there 
many  years.  He  had  a  rich  brother,  a  farmer  in 
the  valley  below.  Then  there  was  Eri  Gray,  who 
lived  to  be  over  one  hundred  years.  He  occupied 
a  little  house  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  and  lived, 
it  was  said,  like  the  pigs  in  the  pen.  Then  there 
was  Aunt  Deborah  Bouton,  who  lived  in  a  little 
house  by  a  lonely  road  and  took  care  of  her  little 
farm  and  her  four  or  five  cows,  winter  and  summer. 
Since  I  have  lived  here  on  the  Hudson  there  was  a 
man  who  Ined  alone  in  an  old  stone  house  amid 
great  filth  on  the  top  of  the  hill  above  Esopus  village. 

In  my  own  line  of  descent  there  was  a  Kelley  who 
lived  alone  in  a  hut  in  the  woods,  not  far  from 
Albany.  I  myself  must  have  a  certain  amount  of 
solitude,  but  I  love  to  hear  the  hum  of  life  all  about 
me.  I  like  to  be  secluded  in  a  building  warmed 
by  the  presence  of  other  persons. 

When  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  farm,  the  bright, 
warm,  midsummer  days  were  canopied  with  the 
mellow  hum  of  insects.     You  did  not  see  them  or 
244 


DAY  BY  DAY 

distinguish  any  one  species,  but  the  whole  upper 
air  resounded  like  a  great  harp.  It  was  a  very 
marked  feature  of  midday.  But  not  for  fifty 
years  have  I  heard  that  sound.  I  have  pressed 
younger  and  sharper  ears  into  my  service,  but  to 
no  purpose :  there  are  certainly  fewer  bumblebees 
than  of  old,  but  not  fewer  flies  or  wasps  or  hornets 
or  honey  bees.  What  has  wrought  the  change  I 
do  not  know. 

If  the  movements  going  on  around  us  in  inert 
matter  could  be  magnified  so  as  to  come  within 
range  of  our  unaided  vision,  how  agitated  the  world 
would  seem !  The  so-called  motionless  bodies 
are  all  vibrating  and  shifting  their  places  day  and 
night  at  all  seasons.  The  rocks  are  sliding  down 
the  hills  or  creeping  out  of  their  beds,  the  stone 
walls  are  reeling  and  toppling,  the  houses  are  set 
tling  or  leaning.  All  inert  material  raised  by  the 
hand  of  man  above  the  earth's  surface  is  slowly 
being  pulled  down  to  a  uniform  level.  The  crust 
of  the  earth  is  rising  or  subsiding.  The  very  stars 
in  the  constellations  are  shifting  their  places. 

If  we  could  see  the  molecular  and  chemical 
changes  and  transformations  that  are  going  or 
around  us,  another  world  of  instability  would  be 
revealed  to  us.  Here  we  should  see  real  mira 
cles.  We  should  see  the  odorless  gases  unite  to 
form  water.  We  should  see  the  building  of 
245 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

crystals,  catalysis,  and  the  movements  of  unstable 
compounds. 

Think  of  what  Nature  does  with  varying  degrees 
of  temperature  —  solids,  fluids,  gases.  From  the 
bottom  to  the  top  of  the  universe  means  simply 
more  or  less  heat.  It  seems  like  a  misuse  of  words 
to  say  that  iron  freezes  at  a  high  temperature,  that 
a  bar  of  red-hot  or  white-hot  iron  is  frozen.  Water 
freezes  at  a  high  temperature,  the  air  freezes  at  a 
vastly  lower.  Carbon  dioxide  becomes  a  solid  at 
a  very  low  temperature.  Hydrogen  becomes  a 
liquid  at  252°  below  zero  centigrade,  and  a  solid 
at  264°.  The  gas  fluorine  becomes  a  liquid  at 
210°  below  zero  centigrade. 

In  a  world  of  absolute  zero  everything  would  be 
as  solid  as  the  rocks,  all  life,  all  chemical  reactions 
would  cease.  All  forms  of  water  are  the  result  of 
more  or  less  heat.  The  circuit  of  the  waters  from 
the  earth  to  the  clouds  and  back  again,  which  keeps 
all  the  machinery  of  life  a-going,  is  the  work  of 
varying  degrees  of  temperature.  The  Gulf  Stream, 
which  plays  such  a  part  in  the  climate  of  Europe, 
is  the  result  of  the  heat  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 
The  glacial  periods  which  have  so  modified  the 
surface  of  the  earth  in  the  past  were  the  result  of 
temperature  changes. 

How  habitually  we  speak  of  beauty  as  a  positive 
246 


DAY  BY  DAY 

thing,  just  as  we  do  of  truth !  whereas  what  we 
call  beauty  is  only  an  emotional  experience  of  our 
own  minds,  just  as  light  and  heat  are  sensations 
of  our  bodies.  There  is  no  light  where  there  is  no 
eye,  and  no  sound  where  there  is  no  ear.  One  is  a 
vibration  in  the  ether,  and  the  other  a  vibration  in 
the  air.  The  vibrations  are  positive.  We  do  not 
all  see  beauty  in  the  same  things.  One  man  is 
unmoved  where  another  is  thrilled.  We  say  the 
world  is  full  of  beauty,  when  we  mean  that  it  is 
full  of  objects  that  excite  this  emotion  in  our  minds. 

We  speak  of  truth  as  if  it,  too,  were  a  positive 
thing,  and  as  if  there  were  a  fixed  quantity  of  it  in 
the  world,  as  there  is  of  gold  or  silver,  or  diamonds. 
Truth,  again,  is  an  intellectual  emotion  of  the  hu 
man  mind.  One  man's  truth  is  another  man's 
falsehood  —  moral  and  aesthetic  truth,  I  mean. 
Objective  truth  (mathematics  and  science)  must 
be  the  same  to  all  men. 

A  certain  mode  of  motion  in  the  molecules  of 
matter  gives  us  the  sensation  of  heat,  but  heat  is 
not  a  thing,  an  entity  in  itself,  any  more  than  cold 
is.  Yet  to  our  senses  one  seems  just  as  positive 
as  the  other. 

New  truth  means  a  new  man.  There  are  as 
many  kinds  of  truth  as  there  are  human  expe 
riences  and  temperaments. 

How  adaptive  is  animal  life !     It  adds  a  new 

247 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

touch  of  interest  to  the  forbidding  cactus  to  know 
that  the  cactus  wren  builds  her  nest  between  its 
leaves.  The  spines  probably  serve  to  protect  the 
bird  from  her  enemies.  But  are  they  not  also  a 
menace  to  her  and  to  her  young  ?  But  this  "  pro- 
creant  cradle  "  of  a  bird  in  the  arms  of  the  fanged 
desert  growth  softens  its  aspect  a  little. 

The  tree  of  forbidden  fruit  —  the  Tree  of  Knowl 
edge  —  how  copiously  has  mankind  eaten  of  it 
during  these  latter  generations  !  —  and  the  chaotic 
state  of  the  world  to-day  is  the  result.  We  have 
been  forcing  Nature's  hand  on  a  tremendous  scale. 
We  have  gained  more  knowledge  and  power  than 
we  can  legitimately  use.  We  are  drunk  with  the 
sense  of  power.  We  challenge  the  very  gods. 
The  rapid  increase  of  inventions  and  the  harness 
ing  of  the  powers  of  Nature  have  set  all  nations  to 
manufacturing  vastly  more  goods  than  they  can 
use  and  they  all  become  competitors  for  world 
markets,  and  rivalries  and  jealousies  spring  up, 
and  the  seeds  of  war  are  planted.  The  rapid 
growth  of  towns  and  cities  is  one  of  the  results. 
The  sobering  and  humanizing  influence  of  the 
country  and  the  farm  are  less  and  less  in  evidence ; 
the  excitement,  the  excesses,  the  intoxication  of 
the  cities  are  more  and  more.  The  follies  and  ex 
travagances  of  wealth  lead  to  the  insolence  and  re 
bellion  of  the  poor.  Material  power  !  Drunk  with 
248 


DAY  BY  DAY 

this  power,  the  world  is  running  amuck  to-day. 
We  have  got  rid  of  kings  and  despots  and  auto 
cratic  governments;  now  if  we  could  only  keep 
sober  and  make  democracy  safe  and  enjoyable ! 
Too  much  science  has  brought  us  to  grief.  Be 
hold  what  Chemistry  has  done  to  put  imperial 
power  in  our  hands  during  the  last  decade ! 

The  grand  movements  of  history  and  of  man 
kind  are  like  the  movements  of  nature,  under  the 
same  law,  elemental,  regardless  of  waste  and  ruin 
and  delays  —  not  the  result  of  human  will  or  de 
sign,  but  of  forces  we  wot  not  of.  They  are  of 
the  same  order  as  floods,  tornadoes,  earthquakes, 
a  release  of  human  forces  that  have  slumbered. 
The  chaos  of  Europe  to-day  shows  the  play  of  such 
elemental  forces,  unorganized,  at  cross-purposes, 
antagonistic,  fighting  it  out  in  the  attempt  to  find 
an  equilibrium.  The  pain,  the  suffering,  the 
waste,  the  delays,  do  not  trouble  the  gods  at  all. 
Since  man  is  a  part  of  nature,  why  should  not 
masses  of  men  be  ruled  by  natural  law?  The  hu 
man  will  reaches  but  a  little  way. 


vni 

GLEANINGS 

I  DO  not  believe  that  one  poet  can  or  does  efface 
another,  as  Arnold  suggests.  As  every  gas  is  a 
vacuum  to  every  other  gas,  so  every  new  poet  is 
a  vacuum  to  every  other  poet.  Wordsworth  told 
Arnold  that  for  many  years  his  poems  did  not 
bring  him  enough  to  buy  his  shoestrings.  The 
reading  public  had  to  acquire  a  taste  for  him. 
Whitman  said,  "  I  am  willing  to  wait  for  the 
growth  of  the  taste  of  myself."  A  man  who  likes 
a  poet  of  real  worth  is  going  to  continue  to  like 
him,  no  matter  what  new  man  appears.  He  may 
not  read  him  over  and  over,  but  he  goes  back  to 
him  when  the  mood  is  upon  him.  We  listen  to  the 
same  music  over  and  over.  We  take  the  same 
walk  over  and  over.  We  read  Shakespeare  ovre 
and  over,  and  we  go  back  to  the  best  in  Words 
worth  over  and  over.  We  get  in  Tennyson  what 
we  do  not  get  in  Wordsworth,  and  we  as  truly  get 
in  Wordsworth  what  we  do  not  get  in  Tennyson. 
Tennyson  was  sumptuous  and  aristocratic.  By 
ron  found  his  audience,  but  he  did  not  rob  Words 
worth. 

250 


GLEANINGS 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  preeminence  of  Words 
worth  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  deals  so  entirely  with 
concrete  things  —  men  and  objects  in  nature  —  and 
floods  or  saturates  them  with  moral  meanings. 
There  is  no  straining,  no  hair-splitting,  no  contor 
tions  of  the  oracle,  but  it  all  comes  as  naturally  as 
the  sunrise  or  the  sunset. 

Things  not  beautiful  in  themselves,  or  when 
seen  near  at  hand,  may  and  do  give  us  the  sense  of 
beauty  when  seen  at  a  distance,  or  in  mass.  Who 
has  not  stood  on  a  mountain-top,  and  seen  before 
him  a  wild,  disorderly  landscape  that  has  never 
theless  awakened  in  him  the  emotion  of  the  beau 
tiful?  or  that  has  given  him  the  emotion  of  the 
sublime  ?  Wordsworth's  "  Daffodils,"  "  Three 
Years  She  Grew,"  "  The  Solitary  Reaper,"  "  The 
Rainbow,"  "The  Butterfly,"  and  many  others 
are  merely  beautiful.  These  lines  from  Whitman 
give  one  the  emotion  of  the  sublime : 

"I  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems, 
And  all  I  see  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher  edge  but  the 
rim  of  the  farther  systems. 

"  Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding. 
Outward  and  outward  and  forever  outward. 

"My  sun  has  his  sun  and  round  him  obediently  wheels, 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside 
them." 

351 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

All  men  may  slake  their  thirst  at  the  same  spring 
of  water,  but  all  men  cannot  be  thrilled  or  soothed 
by  beholding  the  same  objects  of  nature.  A  beau 
tiful  child  captivates  every  one,  -a  beautiful  woman 
ravishes  all  eyes.  On  my  way  to  the  Imperial 
Valley,  I  recently  drove  across  a  range  of  Cali 
fornia  mountains  that  had  many  striking  features. 
A  lady  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  them  beautiful. 
I  said,  "  No,  they  are  hideous,  but  the  hideous  may 
be  interesting." 

The  snow  is  beautiful  to  many  persons,  but  it  is 
not  so  to  me.  It  is  the  color  of  death.  I  could 
stand  our  northern  winters  very  well  if  I  could  al 
ways  see  the  face  of  the  brown  or  ruddy  earth.  The 
snow,  I  know,  blankets  the  fields ;  and  Emerson's 
poem  on  the  snowstorm  is  fine ;  at  the  same  time, 
I  would  rather  not  be  obliged  to  look  at  the  white 
fields. 

We  are  the  first  great  people  without  a  past  in 
the  European  sense.  We  are  of  yesterday.  We 
do  not  strike  our  roots  down  deep  into  the  geology 
of  long-gone  ages.  We  are  easily  transplanted. 
We  are  a  mixture  of  all  peoples  as  the  other  nations 
of  the  world  are  not.  Only  yesterday  we  were  for 
eigners  ourselves.  Then  we  made  the  first  exper 
iment  on  a  large  scale  of  a  democratic  or  self- 
governing  people.  The  masses,  and  not  a  privi 
leged  few,  give  the  tone  and  complexion  to  things 
252 


GLEANINGS 

in  this  country.  We  have  not  yet  had  time  to 
develop  a  truly  national  literature  or  art.  We 
have  produced  but  one  poet  of  the  highest  order. 
Whitman  is  autochthonous.  He  had  no  precur 
sor.  He  is  a  new  type  of  man  appearing  in  this 
field. 

"  What  think  ye  of  Whitman  ?  "  This  is  the 
question  I  feel  like  putting,  and  sometimes  do  put, 
to  each  young  poet  I  meet.  If  he  thinks  poorly 
of  Whitman,  I  think  poorly  of  him.  I  do  not  ex 
pect  great  things  of  him,  and  so  far  my  test  holds 
good.  William  Winter  thought  poorly  of  Whit 
man,  Aldrich  thought  poorly  of  him,  and  what 
lasting  thing  has  either  of  them  done  in  poetry? 
The  memorable  things  of  Aldrich  are  in  prose. 
Stedman  showed  more  appreciation  of  him,  and 
Stedman  wrote  two  or  three  things  that  will  keep. 
His  "  Osawatomie  Brown  ...  he  shoved  his  ramrod 
down  "  is  sure  of  immortality.  Higginson  could 
not  stand  Whitman,  and  had  his  little  fling  at  him 
whenever  he  got  the  chance.  Who  reads  Higgin 
son  now?  Emerson,  who  far  outranks  any  other 
New  England  poet,  was  fairly  swept  off  his  feet  by 
the  first  appearance  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  Whit- 
tier,  I  am  told,  threw  the  book  in  the  fire.  Whit- 
tier's  fame  has  not  gone  far  beyond  New  England. 
The  scholarly  and  academic  Lowell  could  not  tol 
erate  Whitman,  and  if  Lowell  has  ever  written 
253 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

any  true  poetry,  I  have  not  seen  it.  What  Long 
fellow  thought  of  him,  I  do  not  know.  Thoreau 
saw  his  greatness  at  a  glance  and  went  to  see  him. 
In  England,  I  am  told,  Tennyson  used  to  read 
him  aloud  in  select  company.  I  know  that  the 
two  poets  corresponded.  We  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Swinburne's  spasmodic  insight  in  his  first  burst  of 
enthusiasm  over  him,  and  then  of  his  weakness  in 
recanting.  Swinburne's  friend  and  house-mate, 
Watts  Dunton,  never  could  endure  him,  but  what 
has  he  done?  So  it  has  gone  and  still  is  going, 
though  now  the  acceptance  of  Whitman  has  be 
come  the  fashion. 

I  have  always  patted  myself  on  the  back  for 
seeing  the  greatness  of  Whitman  from  the  first  day 
that  I  read  a  line  of  his.  I  was  bewildered  and 
disturbed  by  some  things,  but  I  saw  enough  to 
satisfy  me  of  his  greatness. 

Whitman  had  the  same  faith  in  himself  that 
Kepler  had  in  his  work.  Whitman  said : 

"  Whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day,  or  in  ten  thousand, 

or  ten  million  years, 

I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal  cheerful 
ness  I  can  wait." 

Kepler  said:  "The  die  is  cast;  the  book  is  writ 
ten,  to  be  read  either  now  or  by  posterity.  I 
care  not  which.  It  may  well  wait  a  century  for  a 
reader,  since  God  has  waited  six  thousand  years 
for  an  observer  like  myself." 
254 


GLEANINGS 

Judging  from  fragments  of  his  letters  that  I 
have  seen,  Henry  James  was  unquestionably 
hypersensitive.  In  his  dislike  of  publicity  he  was 
extreme  to  the  point  of  abnormality;  it  made 
him  ill  to  see  his  name  in  print,  except  under 
just  the  right  conditions.  He  wanted  all  things 
veiled  and  softened.  He  fled  his  country,  ab 
jured  it  completely.  The  publicity  of  it,  of 
everything  in  America — its  climate,  its  day,  its 
night,  the  garish  sun,  its  fierce,  blazing  light,  the 
manner  of  its  people,  its  politics,  its  customs  —  fairly 
made  him  cringe.  During  his  last  visit  here  he 
tried  lecturing,  but  soon  gave  it  up.  He  fled  to 
veiled  and  ripened  and  cushioned  England  —  not 
to  the  country,  but  to  smoky  London ;  and  there 
his  hypersensitive  soul  found  peace  and  ease. 
He  became  a  British  subject,  washed  himself 
completely  of  every  vestige  of  Americanism.  This 
predilection  of  his  probably  accounts  for  the  ob 
scurity  or  tantalizing  indirectness  of  his  writings. 
The  last  story  I  read  of  his  was  called  "  One  More 
Turn  of  the  Screw,"  but  what  the  screw  was,  or 
what  the  turn  was,  or  whether  anybody  got  pinched 
or  squeezed,  or  what  it  was  all  about,  I  have  not 
the  slightest  idea.  He  wrote  about  his  visit  here, 
his  trip  to  Boston,  to  Albany,  to  New  York,  but 
which  town  he  was  writing  about  you  could  not 
infer  from  the  context.  He  had  the  gift  of  a  rich, 
255 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

choice  vocabulary,  but  he  wove  it  into  impenetra 
ble,  though  silken,  veils  that  concealed  more  than 
they  revealed.  When  replying  to  his  correspond 
ents  on  the  typewriter,  he  would  even  apologize 
for  "  the  fierce  legibility  of  the  type.'* 

The  contrast  between  the  "  singing-robes  and 
the  overalls  of  Journalism  "  is  true  and  striking. 
Good  and  true  writing  no  magazine  or  newspaper 
editor  will  blue-pencil.  But  "  fine  "  writing  is  a 
different  thing  —  a  style  that  is  conscious  of  itself, 
a  style  in  which  the  thought  is  commonplace  and 
the  language  studied  and  ornate,  every  judicious 
editor  will  blue-pencil.  Downrightness  and  sen- 
tentiousness  are  prime  qualities;  brevity,  con- 
creteness,  spontaneity  —  in  fact,  all  forms  of 
genuine  expression  —  help  make  literature.  You 
know  the  genuine  from  the  spurious,  gold  from 
pinchbeck,  that's  the  rub.  The  secret  of  sound 
writing  is  not  in  the  language,  but  in  the  mind  or 
personality  behind  the  language.  The  dull  writer 
and  the  inspired  writer  use,  or  may  use,  the  same 
words,  and  the  product  will  be  gold  in  the  one  and 
lead  in  the  other. 

Dana's  book  ["Two  Years  Before   the  Mast"] 

is  a  classic  because  it  took  no  thought  of  being  a 

classic.     It  is  a  plain,  unvarnished  tale,  not  loaded 

up  with  tedious  descriptions.     It  is  all  action,  a 

256 


GLEANINGS 

perpetual  drama  in  which  the  sea,  the  winds,  the 
seamen,  the  sails  —  mainsail,  main  royal,  foresail 

—  play  the  principal  parts. 

There  is  no  book  depicting  life  on  the  sea  to 
compare  with  it.  Lately  I  have  again  tried  to  find 
the  secret  of  its  charm.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  a 
plain,  unvarnished  tale,  no  attempt  at  fine  writ 
ing  in  it.  All  is  action  from  cover  to  cover.  It  is 
full  of  thrilling,  dramatic  scenes.  In  fact,  it  is 
almost  a  perpetual  drama  in  which  the  sea,  the 
winds,  the  storms,  the  sails,  and  the  sailors  play 
their  parts.  Each  sail,  from  the  smallest  to  the 
greatest,  has  its  own  character  and  its  own  part  to 
play;  sometimes  many  of  them,  sometimes  few 
are  upon  the  stage  at  once.  Occasionally  all  the 
canvas  was  piled  on  at  once,  and  then  what  a 
sight  the  ship  was  to  behold !  Scudding  under  bare 
poles  was  dramatic  also. 

The  life  on  board  ship  in  those  times  —  its  humor, 
its  tedium,  its  dangers,  its  hardships  —  was  never 
before  so  vividly  portrayed.  The  tyranny  and 
cruelty  of  sea-captains,  the  absolute  despotism  of 
that  little  world  of  the  ship's  deck,  stand  out  in 
strong  relief.  Dana  had  a  memory  like  a  phono 
graphic  record.  Unless  he  took  copious  notes  on 
this  journey,  it  is  incredible  how  he  could  have 
made  it  so  complete,  so  specific  is  the  life  of  each 
day.  The  reader  craves  more  light  on  one  point 

—  the  size  of  the  ship,  her  length  and  tonnage.     In 

257 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

setting  out  on  the  homeward  journey  they  took 
aboard  a  dozen  sheep,  four  bullocks,  a  dozen  or 
more  pigs,  three  or  four  dozen  of  poultry,  thou 
sands  of  dressed  and  cured  hides,  as  well  as  fodder 
and  feed  for  the  cattle  and  poultry  and  pigs.  The 
vessel  seemed  elastic ;  they  could  always  find  room 
for  a  few  thousand  more  hides,  if  the  need  arose. 
The  hides  were  folded  up  like  the  leaves  of  a  book, 
and  they  invented  curious  machinery  to  press  in 
a  hundred  hides  where  one  could  not  be  forced  by 
hand.  By  this  means  the  forty  thousand  hides 
were  easily  disposed  of  as  part  of  the  home  cargo. 

The  ship  becomes  a  living  being  to  the  sailors. 
The  Alert  was  so  loaded,  her  cargo  so  sieved  in, 
that  she  was  stiff  as  a  man  in  a  strait-jacket.  But 
the  old  sailors  said:  "Stand  by.  You'll  see  her 
work  herself  loose  in  a  week  or  two,  and  then  she  '11 
walk  up  to  Cape  Horn  like  a  race-horse." 

It  is  curious  how  the  sailors  can't  work  together 
without  a  song.  "  A  song  is  as  necessary  to  a 
sailor  as  the  drum  and  fife  are  to  the  soldier.  They 
can't  pull  in  time,  or  pull  with  a  will,  without  it." 
Some  songs  were  much  more  effective  than  others. 
"  Two  or  three  songs  would  be  tried,  one  after 
the  other,  with  no  effect  —  not  an  inch  could  be 
got  upon  the  tackles,  when  a  new  song  struck  up 
seemed  to  hit  the  humor  of  the  moment  and  drove 
the  tackles  two  blocks  at  once.  *  Heave  round, 
hearty  ! '  '  Captain  gone  ashore  !  '  and  the  like, 
258 


GLEANINGS 

might  do  for  common  pulls,  but  in  an  emergency, 
when  we  wanted  a  heavy,  raise- the-dead  pull, 
which  would  start  the  beams  of  the  ship,  there  was 
nothing  like  *  Time  for  us  to  go ! '  *  Round  the 
corner,'  or  *  Hurrah !  Hurrah !  my  hearty  bul 
lies  ! '  " 

The  mind  of  the  professional  critic,  like  the  pro 
fessional  logical  mind,  becomes  possessed  of  certain 
rules  which  it  adheres  to  on  all  occasions.  There 
is  a  well-known  legal  mind  in  this  country  which  is 
typical.  A  recent  political  opponent  of  the  man 
says: 

His  is  the  type  of  mind  which  would  have  sided  with 
King  John  against  granting  the  Magna  Charta;  the 
type  of  mind  which  would  have  opposed  the  ratification 
of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  because  he 
would  have  found  so  many  holes  in  it.  His  is  the  type 
of  mind  which  would  have  opposed  the  Monroe  Doctrine 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  dangerous.  His  is  the  type 
of  mind  which  would  have  opposed  the  Emancipation 
Proclamation  on  the  ground  of  taking  away  property 
without  due  process  of  law.  His  is  the  type  of  mind 
which  would  have  opposed  Cleveland's  Venezuela  mes 
sage  to  England  on  the  ground  that  it  was  unprece 
dented.  His  is  the  type  of  mind  which  did  its  best  in 
1912  to  oppose  Theodore  Roosevelt's  effort  to  make  the 
Republican  Party  progressive. 

Such  a  mind  would  have  no  use  for  Roosevelt,  for 

instance,   because  Roosevelt  was   not  bound   by 

precedents,  but  made  precedents  of  his  own.     The 

259 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

typical  critical  mind,  such  as  Arnold's,  would  deny 
the  title  of  philosopher  to  a  man  who  has  no  con 
structive  talent,  who  could  not  build  up  his  own 
philosophy  into  a  system.  He  would  deny  another 
the  title  of  poet  because  his  verse  has  not  the 
Miltonic  qualities  of  simplicity,  of  sensuousness,  of 
passion.  Emerson  was  not  a  great  man  of  letters, 
Arnold  said,  because  he  had  not  the  genius  and  in 
stinct  for  style;  his  prose  had  not  the  requisite 
wholeness  of  good  tissue.  Emerson's  prose  is 
certainly  not  Arnold's  prose,  but  at  its  best  it  is 
just  as  effective. 

It  is  a  good  idea  of  Santayana  that  "  the  function 
of  poetry  is  to  emotionalize  philosophy." 

How  absurd,  even  repulsive,  is  the  argument  of 
"  Paradise  Lost " !  yet  here  is  great  poetry,  not  in 
the  matter,  but  in  the  manner. 

"Though  fallen  on  evil  days,  on  evil  days   though  fallen." 
"To  shun  delights  and  live  laborious  days." 

Common  ideas,  but  what  dignity  in  the  expres 


sion  ! 

Criticism  is  easy.  When  a  writer  has  nothing 
else  to  do,  he  can  criticize  some  other  writer.  But 
to  create  and  originate  is  not  so  easy.  One  may 
say  that  appreciation  is  easy  also.  How  many 
persons  appreciate  good  literature  who  cannot  pro 
duce  it ! 

260 


GLEANINGS 

The  rash  and  the  audacious  are  not  the  same. 
Audacity  means  boldness,  but  to  be  rash  often 
means  to  be  imprudent  or  foolhardy.  When  a 
little  dog  attacks  a  big  dog,  as  so  often  happens, 
his  boldness  becomes  rashness.  When  Charles 
Kingsley  attacked  Newman,  his  boldness  turned 
out  to  be  rashness. 

Little  wonder  that  in  his  essay  on  "  Books " 
Emerson  recommends  Thomas  a  Kempis's  "  Imi 
tation  of  Christ."  Substitute  the  word  Nature 
for  God  and  Christ  and  much  of  it  will  sound  very 
Emersonian.  Emerson  was  a  kind  of  New  Eng 
land  Thomas  a  Kempis.  His  spirit  and  attitude 
of  mind  were  essentially  the  same,  only  directed 
to  Nature  and  the  modern  world.  Humble  your 
self,  keep  yourself  in  the  background,  and  let  the 
over-soul  speak.  "  I  desire  no  consolation  which 
taket  h  from  me  compunction. "  *  *  I  love  no  contem 
plation  which  leads  to  pride."  "  For  all  that  which 
is  high  is  not  holy,  nor  everything  that  is  sweet, 
good."  "  I  had  rather  feel  contrition,  than  be 
skilled  in  the  definition  of  it."  "  All  Scripture 
ought  to  be  read  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  writ 
ten."  How  Emersonian  all  this  sounds ! 

In  a  fat  volume  of  forty  thousand  quotations 
from  the  literature  of  all  times  and  countries,  com- 
281 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

piled  by  some  patient  and  industrious  person,  at 
least  half  of  it  is  not  worth  the  paper  on  which  it 
is  printed.  There  seem  to  be  more  quotations  in 
it  from  Shakespeare  than  from  any  other  poet, 
which  is  as  it  should  be.  There  seem  to  be  more 
from  Emerson  than  from  any  other  American  poet, 
which  again  is  as  it  should  be.  Those  from  the 
great  names  of  antiquity  —  the  Bible,  Sadi,  Cicero, 
^Eschylus,  Euripides,  Aristotle,  and  others  —  are  all 
worth  while,  and  the  quotations  from  Bacon,  New 
ton,  Addison,  Locke,  Chaucer,  Johnson,  Carlyle, 
Huxley,  Tennyson,  Goethe  are  welcome.  But 
the  quotations  from  women  writers  and  poets,— 
Mrs.  He  mans,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Jean  Ingelow,  and 
others,  —  what  are  they  worth  ?  Who  would  expect 
anything  profound  from  J.  G.  Holland  or  Chapin, 
O.  W.  Holmes,  or  Alger,  or  Alcott,  or  Helps,  or 
Dickens,  or  Lewes,  or  Froude,  or  Lowell?  I 
certainly  should  not. 

Such  a  selection  is  good  to  leaf  over.  Your 
thought  may  be  kindled  or  fanned  here  and  there. 
The  subjects  are  arranged  alphabetically,  and  em 
brace  nearly  all  themes  of  human  interest  from 
ability  to  zephyrs.  There  is  very  little  from  Whit 
man,  and,  I  think,  only  one  quotation  from  Thoreau. 

The  death  of  Howells  gave  me  a  shock.     I  had 
known  him  long,  though  not  intimately.     He  was 
my  senior  by  only  one  month.     It  had  been  two 
262 


GLEANINGS 

years  or  more  since  I  had  seen  him.  Last  Decem 
ber  I  read  his  charming  paper  on  "  Eighty  Years 
and  After"  and  enjoyed  it  greatly.  It  is  a  mas 
terpiece.  No  other  American  man  of  letters,  past 
or  present,  could  have  done  that.  In  fact,  there 
has  been  no  other  American  who  achieved  the  all- 
round  literary  craftsmanship  that  Mr.  Howells 
achieved.  His  equal  in  his  own  line  we  have  never 
seen.  His  felicity  on  all  occasions  was  a  wonder. 
His  works  do  not  belong  to  the  literature  of  power, 
but  to  the  literature  of  charm,  grace,  felicity.  His 
style  is  as  flexible  and  as  limpid  as  a  mountain  rill. 
Only  among  the  French  do  we  find  such  qualities 
in  such  perfection.  Some  of  his  writings — "Their 
Wedding  Journey,"  for  instance  —  are  too  pho 
tographic.  We  miss  the  lure  of  the  imagination, 
such  as  Hawthorne  gave  to  all  his  pictures  of  real 
things.  Only  one  of  Howells's  volumes  have  I 
found  too  thin  for  me  to  finish  —  his  "  London 
Films  "  was  too  filmy  for  me.  I  had  read  Taine's 
"  London  Notes  "  and  felt  the  force  of  a  different 
type  of  mind.  But  Howells's  "  Eighty  Years  and 
After  "  will  live  as  a  classic.  Oh,  the  felicity  of 
his  style !  One  of  his  later  poems  on  growing  old 
("  On  a  Bright  Winter's  Day"  it  is  called)  is  a 
gem. 


263 


IX 

SUNDOWN  PAPERS 
RE-READING  BERGSON 

I  AM  trying  again  to  read  Bergson's  "  Creative 
Evolution,"  with  poor  success.  When  I  recall 
how  I  was  taken  with  the  work  ten  or  more  years 
ago,  and  carried  it  with  me  whenever  I  went  from 
home,  I  am  wondering  if  my  mind  has  become  too 
old  and  feeble  to  take  it  in.  But  I  do  not  have  such 
difficulty  with  any  other  of  my  favorite  authors. 
Bergson's  work  now  seems  to  me  a  mixture  of  two 
things  that  won't  mix  —  metaphysics  and  natural 
science.  It  is  full  of  word-splitting  and  conjuring 
with  terms,  and  abounds  in  natural  history  facts. 
The  style  is  wonderful,  but  the  logic  is  not  strong. 
He  enlarges  upon  the  inability  of  the  intellect  to 
understand  or  grasp  Life.  The  reason  is  baffled, 
but  sympathy  and  the  emotional  nature  and  the 
intuitions  grasp  the  mystery. 

This  may  be  true,  the  heart  often  knows  what 
the  head  does  not ;  but  is  it  not  the  intellect  that 
tells  us  so  ?  The  intellect  understands  the  grounds 
of  our  inability.  We  can  and  do  reason  about  the 
limitations  of  reason.  We  do  not  know  how  mat- 
264 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

ter  and  spirit  blend,  but  we  know  they  do  blend. 
The  animals  live  by  instinct,  and  we  live  largely  in 
our  emotions,  but  it  is  reason  that  has  placed  man 
at  the  head  of  the  animal  kingdom. 

Bergson  himself  by  no  means  dispenses  with 
the  logical  faculty.  Note  his  close  and  convincing 
reasoning  on  the  development  of  the  vertebrate 
eye,  and  how  inadequate  the  Darwinian  idea  of 
the  accumulation  of  insensible  variations  is  to  ac 
count  for  it.  A  closer  and  more  convincing  piece 
of  reasoning  would  be  hard  to  find. 

Bergson's  conception  of  two  currents  —  an  up 
ward  current  of  spirit  and  a  downward  current 
of  matter — meeting  and  uniting  at  a  definite  time 
and  place  and  producing  life,  is  extremely  fanciful. 
Where  had  they  both  been  during  all  the  geologic 
ages  ?  I  do  not  suppose  they  had  been  any  where. 
How  life  arose  is,  of  course,  one  of  the  great  mys 
teries.  But  do  we  not  know  enough  to  see  that 
it  did  not  originate  in  this  sudden  spectacular 
way  ?  —  that  it  began  very  slowly,  in  unicellular 
germs  ? 

At  first  I  was  so  captivated  by  the  wonderful 
style  of  M.  Bergson,  and  the  richness  of  his  page  in 
natural  history,  that  I  could  see  no  flaws  in  his  sub 
ject-matter,  but  now  that  my  enthusiasm  has 
cooled  off  a  little  I  return  to  him  and  am  looking 
closer  into  the  text. 

Is  not  Bergson  guilty  of  false  or  careless  reason- 
265 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

ing  when  he  says  that  the  relation  of  the  soul  to 
the  brain  is  like  that  of  a  coat  to  the  nail  upon 
which  it  hangs  ?  I  call  this  spurious  or  pinchbeck 
analogy.  If  we  know  anything  about  it,  do  we 
not  know  that  the  relation  of  the  two  is  not  a  me 
chanical  or  fortuitous  one?  and  that  it  cannot  be 
defined  in  this  loose  way  ? 

"  To  a  large  extent,"  Bergson  says,  "  thought 
is  independent  of  the  brain."  "  The  brain  is, 
strictly  speaking,  neither  an  organ  of  thought, 
nor  of  feeling,  nor  of  consciousness."  He  speaks 
of  consciousness  as  if  it  were  a  disembodied  some 
thing  floating  around  in  the  air  overhead,  like 
wireless  messages.  If  I  do  not  think  with  my 
brain,  with  what  do  I  think?  Certainly  not  with 
my  legs,  or  my  abdomen,  or  my  chest.  I  think 
with  my  head,  or  the  gray  matter  of  my  brain. 
I  look  down  at  the  rest  of  my  body  and  I  say, 
This  is  part  of  me,  but  it  is  not  the  real  me. 
With  both  legs  and  both  arms  gone,  I  should  still 
be  I.  But  cut  off  my  head  and  where  am  I  ? 

Has  not  the  intelligence  of  the  animal  kingdom 
increased  during  the  geologic  ages  with  the  increase 
in  the  size  of  the  brain  ? 

REVISIONS 

I  HAVE  little  need  to  revise  my  opinion  of  any  of 
the  great  names   of   English  literature.     I   prob 
ably  make  more  strenuous  demands  upon  him  who 
266 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

aspires  to  be  a  poet  than  ever  before.  I  see  more 
clearly  than  ever  before  that  sweetened  prose  put 
up  in  verse  form  does  not  make  poetry  any  more 
than  sweetened  water  put  in  the  comb  in  the  hive 
makes  honey.  Many  of  our  would-be  young  poets 
bring  us  the  crude  nectar  from  the  fields  —  fine 
descriptions  of  flowers,  birds,  sunsets,  and  so  on  — 
and  expect  us  to  accept  them  as  honey.  The  qual 
ity  of  the  man  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world. 
A  great  nature  can  describe  birds  and  flowers  and 
clouds  and  sunsets  and  spring  and  autumn  greatly. 

Dean  Swift  quotes  Sir  Philip  Sidney  as  saying 
that  the  "  chief  life  of  modern  versifying  consists 
in  rhyme."  Swift  agrees  with  him.  "  Verse 
without  rhyme,"  he  says,  "  is  a  body  without  a 
soul,  or  a  bell  without  a  clapper."  He  thinks 
Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost  "  would  be  greatly  im 
proved  if  it  had  rhyme.  This,  he  says,  would  make 
it  "  more  heroic  and  sonorous  than  it  is." 

Unobtrusive  rhyme  may  be  a  help  in  certain 
cases,  but  what  modern  reader  would  say  that  a 
poem  without  rhyme  is  a  body  without  a  soul? 
This  would  exclude  many  of  the  noblest  produc 
tions  of  English  literature. 

BERGSON  AND  TELEPATHY 

BERGSON  seems  always  to  have  been  more  than 

half-convinced  of  the  truth  of  spiritualism.     When 

we  are  already  half-convinced  of  a  thing,  it  takes 

267 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

but  little  to  convince  us.  Bergson  argues  himself 
into  a  belief  in  telepathy  in  this  wise :  "  We  pro 
duce  electricity  at  every  moment ;  the  atmosphere 
is  continually  electrified;  we  move  among  mag 
netic  currents.  Yet  for  thousands  of  years  mil 
lions  of  human  beings  have  lived  who  never  sus 
pected  the  existence  of  electricity." 

Millions  of  persons  have  also  lived  without 
suspecting  the  pull  of  the  sun  and  moon  upon  us ; 
or  that  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  upon  our 
bodies  is  fifteen  pounds  to  the  square  inch;  or 
that  the  coast  of  this  part  of  the  continent  is 
slowly  subsiding  (the  oscillations  of  the  earth's 
crust) ;  or  without  suspecting  the  incredible  speed 
of  the  stars  in  the  midnight  sky ;  or  that  the  earth 
is  turning  under  our  feet;  or  that  electrons  are 
shooting  off  from  the  candle  or  lamp  by  the  light 
of  which  we  are  reading.  There  are  assuredly 
more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed 
of  in  our  philosophy,  many  of  which  we  shall  doubt 
less  yet  find  out,  and  many  more  of  which  we  shall 
never  find  out.  Wireless  messages  may  be  con 
tinually  going  through  our  houses  and  our  bodies, 
and  through  the  air  we  breathe,  and  we  never 
suspect  them.  Shall  we,  then,  infer  that  the  air 
around  us  is  full  of  spirits  of  our  departed  friends  ? 
I  hope  it  is,  but  I  fail  to  see  any  warrant  for  the 
belief  in  this  kind  of  reasoning.  It  does  not  lend 
color  even  to  the  probability,  any  more  than  it 
268 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

does  to  the  probability  that  we  shall  yet  be  able 
to  read  one  another's  thoughts  and  become  ex 
pert  mind-readers.  Mind-reading  seems  to  be  a 
reality  with  a  few  persons,  with  one  in  many  mil 
lions.  But  I  cannot  therefore  believe  in  spiritual 
ism  as  I  believe  in  the  "  defeat  of  the  Invincible 
Armada."  Fleets  have  been  defeated  in  all  ages. 
Facts  are  amenable  to  observation  and  experi 
ment,  but  merely  alleged  facts  do  not  stand  the 
laboratory  tests. 

If  memory  is  not  a  function  of  the  brain,  of  what 
is  it  a  function  ?  If  "  judgment,  reasoning,  or 
any  other  act  of  thought  "  are  not  functions  of 
the  brain,  of  what  are  they  the  functions?  The 
scientific  method  is  adequate  to  deal  with  all  ques 
tions  capable  of  proof  or  disproof.  If  we  apply 
the  scientific  or  experimental  method  to  miracles, 
where  does  it  leave  them  ?  Ask  Huxley.  Thought- 
transference  is  possible,  but  does  this  prove  spir 
itualism  to  be  true  ? 

I  know  of  a  man  who  can  answer  your  questions 
if  you  know  the  answers  yourself,  even  without 
reading  them  or  hearing  you  ask  them.  He  once 
read  a  chemical  formula  for  Edison  which  no 
body  but  Edison  had  ever  seen.  I  am  glad  that 
such  things  are  possible.  They  confirm  our  faith 
in  the  reality  of  the  unseen.  They  show  us  in 
what  a  world  of  occult  laws  and  influences  we 
live,  but  they  tell  us  nothing  of  any  other  world. 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

METEORIC  MEN  AND  PLANETARY  MEN 

THERE  are  meteoric  men  and  there  are  planetary 
men.  The  men  who  now  and  then  flash  across 
our  intellectual  heavens,  drawing  all  eyes  for  the 
moment,  these  I  call  meteoric  men.  What  a  con 
trast  they  present  to  the  planetary  men,  who  are  slow 
to  attract  our  attention,  but  who  abide,  and  do 
not  grow  dim !  Poets  like  Emerson,  Whitman, 
and  Wordsworth  were  slow  to  gain  recognition, 
but  the  radiance  of  their  names  grows.  I  call  such 
a  poet  as  Swinburne  meteoric,  a  poet  of  a  certain 
kind  of  brilliant  power,  but  who  reads  him  now? 
Stephen  Phillips  with  his  "  Marpessa  "  had  a  brief 
vogue,  and  then  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 
When  I  was  a  young  man,  I  remember,  a  Scottish 
poet,  Alexander  Smith,  published  a  "  Life  Drama," 
which  dazzled  the  literary  world  for  a  brief  period, 
but  it  is  forgotten  now.  What  attention  Kidd's 
"  Social  Evolution "  attracted  a  generation  or 
more  ago !  But  it  is  now  quite  neglected.  It  was 
not  sound.  When  he  died  a  few  years  ago  there 
was  barely  an  allusion  to  it  in  the  public  press. 
The  same  fate  befell  that  talented  man,  Buckle, 
with  his  "  Civilization  in  England."  Delia  Ba 
con  held  the  ear  of  the  public  for  a  time  with  the 
Bacon-Shakespeare  theory.  Pulpit  men  like  Jo 
seph  Cook  and  Adirondack  Murray  blazed  out, 
and  then  were  gone.  Half  a  century  ago  or  more 
270 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

an  Englishman  by  the  name  of  M.  F.  Tupper  pub 
lished  a  book  called  "  Proverbial  Philosophy " 
which  had  a  brief  season  of  popularity,  and  then 
went  out  like  a  rush-light,  or  a  blaze  of  tissue 
paper.  Novels  like  Miss  Sprague's  "  Earnest 
Trifler,"  Du  Maurier's  "  Trilby,"  and  Wallace's 
"  Ben  Hur  "  have  had  their  little  day,  and  been 
forgotten.  In  the  art  world  the  Cubists'  crazy 
work  drew  the  attention  of  the  public  long  enough 
for  it  to  be  seen  how  spurious  and  absurd  it  was. 
BrownelPs  war  poems  turned  out  to  be  little  more 
than  brief  fireworks.  Joaquin  Miller,  where  is  he  ? 
Fifty  years  ago  Gail  Hamilton  was  much  in  the 
public  eye,  and  Grace  Greenwood,  and  Fanny 
Fern;  and  in  Bohemian  circles,  there  were  Agnes 
Franz  and  Ada  Clare,  but  they  are  all  quite  for 
gotten  now. 

The  meteoric  men  would  not  appreciate  Pres 
ident  Wilson's  wise  saying  that  he  would  rather 
fail  in  a  cause  that  in  time  is  bound  to  succeed  than 
to  succeed  in  a  cause  that  in  time  is  bound  to  fail. 
Such  men  cannot  wait  for  success.  Meteoric  men 
in  politics,  like  Blaine  and  Conkling,  were  bril 
liant  men,  but  were  politicians  merely.  What 
fruitful  or  constructive  ideas  did  they  leave  us  ? 
Could  they  forget  party  in  the  good  of  the  whole 
country?  Are  not  the  opponents  of  the  League 
of  Nations  of  our  own  day  in  the  same  case  — 
without,  however,  shining  with  the  same  degree 
271 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

of  brilliancy?  To  some  of  our  Presidents  — 
Polk,  Pierce,  Buchanan  —  we  owe  little  or  noth 
ing.  Roosevelt's  career,  though  meteoric  in  its 
sudden  brilliancy,  will  shine  with  a  steady  light 
down  the  ages.  He  left  lasting  results.  He  raised 
permanently  the  standard  of  morality  in  politics 
and  business  in  this  country  by  the  gospel  of  the 
square  deal.  Woodrow  Wilson,  after  the  mists 
and  clouds  are  all  dispelled,  will  shine  serenely  on. 
He  is  one  of  the  few  men  of  the  ages. 

THE  DAILY  PAPERS 

PROBABLY  the  worst  feature  of  our  civilization  is 
the  daily  paper.  It  scatters  crime,  bad  manners, 
and  a  pernicious  levity  as  a  wind  scatters  fire. 
Crime  feeds  upon  crime,  and  the  newspapers  make 
sure  that  every  criminally  inclined  reader  shall 
have  enough  to  feed  upon,  shall  have  his  vicious 
nature  aroused  and  stimulated.  Is  it  probable 
that  a  second  and  a  third  President  of  the  United 
States  would  ever  have  been  assassinated  by  shoot 
ing,  had  not  such  notoriety  been  given  to  the  first 
crime?  Murder,  arson,  theft,  peculation,  are  as 
contagious  as  smallpox. 

Who  can  help  a  pitying  or  a  scornful  smile  when 
he  hears  of  a  school  of  journalism,  a  school  for  pro 
moting  crime  and  debauching  the  manners  and 
the  conscience  of  the  people  ?  —  for  teaching  the 
gentle  art  of  lying,  for  manufacturing  news  when 
272 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

there  is  no  news?  The  pupils  are  taught,  I  sup 
pose,  how  to  serve  up  the  sweepings  from  the  streets 
and  the  gutters  and  the  bar-rooms  in  the  most  en 
gaging  manner.  They  are  taught  how  to  give  the 
great  Public  what  it  wants,  and  the  one  thing  the 
great  Public  wants,  and  can  never  get  enough  of  is 
any  form  of  sensationalism.  It  clearly  loves  scan 
dals  about  the  rich,  or  anything  about  the  rich, 
because  we  all  want  and  expect  to  be  rich,  to  out 
shine  our  neighbors,  to  cut  a  wide  swath  in  society. 
Give  us  anything  about  the  rich,  the  Public 
says ;  we  will  take  the  mud  from  their  shoes ;  if  we 
can't  get  that,  give  us  the  parings  of  their  finger 
nails. 

The  inelastic  character  of  the  newspaper  is  a 
hampering  factor  —  so  many  columns  must  be 
filled,  news  or  no  news.  And  when  there  is  a  great 
amount  of  important  news,  see  how  much  is  sup 
pressed  that  but  for  this  inelasticity  would  have 
been  printed ! 

The  professor  at  the  school  of  journalism  says : 
"  I  try  to  hammer  it  into  them  day  after  day  that 
they  have  got  to  learn  to  get  the  news  —  that, 
whatever  else  a  reporter  can  or  cannot  do,  he  is  n't 
a  reporter  till  he  has  learned  to  get  the  news." 
Hence  the  invasion  of  private  houses,  the  brib 
ery,  the  stealing  of  letters,  the  listening  at  key 
holes,  the  craze  for  photographing  the  most  sacred 
episodes,  the  betrayals  of  confidence,  that  the 
273 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

newspapers  are  responsible  for.  They  must  get 
what  the  dear  Public  most  likes  to  hear,  if  they 
have  to  scale  a  man's  housetop,  and  come  down  his 
chimney.  And  if  they  cannot  get  the  true  story, 
they  must  invent  one.  The  idle  curiosity  of  the 
Public  must  be  satisfied. 

Now  the  real  news,  the  news  the  Public  is  en 
titled  to,  is  always  easy  to  get.  It  grows  by  the 
wayside.  The  Public  is  entitled  to  public  news, 
not  to  family  secrets ;  to  the  life  of  the  street  and 
the  mart,  not  to  life  behind  closed  doors.  In  the 
dearth  of  real  news,  the  paper  is  filled  with  the 
dust  and  sweepings  from  the  public  highways  and 
byways,  from  saloons,  police  courts,  political  halls 
—  sordid,  ephemeral,  and  worthless,  because  it 
would  never  get  into  print  if  there  were  real  news 
to  serve  up. 

Then  the  advertising.  The  items  of  news  now 
peep  out  at  us  from  between  flaming  advertise 
ments  of  the  shopmen's  goods,  like  men  on  the 
street  hawking  their  wares,  each  trying  to  out- 
scream  the  other  and  making  such  a  Bedlam  that 
our  ears  are  stunned.1 

1  [This  fragment  is  hardly  representative  of  the  attitude  of 
Mr.  Burroughs  toward  our  worthy  dailies,  and,  could  he  have 
expanded  the  article,  it  would  have  had  in  its  entirety  a  dif 
ferent  tone.  He  lived  on  the  breath  of  the  newspapers;  was 
always  eager  for  legitimate  news ;  and  was  especially  outspoken 
in  admiration  of  the  superb  work  done  by  many  newspaper  cor 
respondents  during  the  World  War.  Furthermore,  he  was 
himself  always  most  approachable  and  friendly  to  the  reporters, 

274 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

THE  ALPHABET 

UNTIL  we  have  stopped  to  think  about  it,  few  of 
us  realize  what  it  means  to  have  an  alphabet  — 
the  combination  of  a  few  straight  lines  and  curves 
which  form  our  letters.  When  you  have  learned 
these,  and  how  to  arrange  them  into  words,  you 
have  the  key  that  unlocks  all  the  libraries  in  the 
world.  An  assortment  and  arrangement  of  black 
lines  on  a  white  surface !  These  lines  mean  noth 
ing  in  themselves ;  they  are  not  symbols,  nor  pic 
tures,  nor  hieroglyphics,  yet  the  mastery  of  them 
is  one  of  the  touchstones  of  civilization.  The  prog 
ress  of  the  race  since  the  dawn  of  history,  or  since 
the  art  of  writing  has  been  invented,  has  gone 
forward  with  leaps  and  bounds.  The  prehistoric 
races,  and  the  barbarous  races  of  our  own  times, 
had  and  have  only  picture  language. 

The  Chinese  have  no  alphabet.  It  is  said  that 
they  are  now  accepting  a  phonetic  alphabet.  The 
Chinese  system  of  writing  comprises  more  than 
forty  thousand  separate  symbols,  each  a  different 
word.  It  requires  the  memorizing  of  at  least 
three  thousand  word-signs  to  read  and  write  their 

complaining,  however,  that  they  often  failed  to  quote  him  when 
he  took  real  pains  to  help  them  get  things  straight ;  while  they 
often  insisted  on  emphasizing  sensational  aspects,  and  even 
put  words  in  his  mouth  which  he  never  uttered.  But  the  truth 
is,  he  valued  the  high-class  newspapers,  though  regarding  even 
them  as  a  two-edged  sword,  since  their  praiseworthy  efforts 
are  so  vitiated  by  craze  for  the  sensational.  —  C.  B.] 

275 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

language.  The  national  phonetic  script  is  made 
up  of  sixty  distinct  characters  that  answer  to 
our  twenty-four.  These  characters  embrace  every 
verbal  sound  of  the  language,  and  in  combination 
make  up  every  word.  The  progress  of  China  has 
been  greatly  hampered  by  this  want  of  an  alphabet. 
Coleridge  says  about  the  primary  art  of  writing : 
"  First,  there  is  mere  gesticulation,  then  rosaries, 
or  wampum,  then  picture  language,  then  hiero 
glyphics,  and  finally  alphabetic  letters,"  -  the 
last  an  evolution  from  all  that  went  before.  But 
there  is  no  more  suggestion  of  an  alphabet  in  the 
sign  language  of  the  North  American  Indian  than 
there  is  of  man  in  a  crinoid. 

THE  REDS  OF  LITERATURE 

A  CLASS  of  young  men  who  seem  to  look  upon  them 
selves  as  revolutionary  poets  has  arisen,  chiefly 
in  Chicago ;  and  they  are  putting  forth  the  most 
astonishing  stuff  in  the  name  of  free  verse  that 
has  probably  ever  appeared  anywhere.  In  a  late 
number  of  '*  Current  Opinion,"  Carl  Sandburg, 
who,  I  am  told,  is  their  chosen  leader,  waves  his 
dirty  shirt  in  the  face  of  the  public  in  this  fashion : 

"My  shirt  is  a  token  and  a  symbol  more  than  a  cover  from 

sun  and  rain, 

My  shirt  is  a  signal  and  a  teller  of  souls, 
I  can  take  off  my  shirt  and  tear  it,  and  so   make  a  ripping 

razzly  noise,  and  the  people  will  say,  'Look  at  him  tear 

his  shirt ! ' 

276 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

"  I  can  keep  my  shirt  on, 
I  can  stick  around  and  sing  like  a  little  bird,  and  look  'em 

all  in  the  eye  and  never  be  fazed, 
I  can  keep  my  shirt  on." 

Does  not  this  resemble  poetry  about  as  much  as 
a  pile  of  dirty  rags  resembles  silk  or  broadcloth? 
The  trick  of  it  seems  to  be  to  take  flat,  unimagina 
tive  prose  and  cut  it  up  in  lines  of  varying  length, 
and  often  omit  the  capitals  at  the  beginning  of  the 
lines  —  "  shredded  prose,"  with  no  "  kick  "  in  it 
at  all.  These  men  are  the  "  Reds  "  of  literature. 
They  would  reverse  or  destroy  all  the  recognized 
rules  and  standards  upon  which  literature  is 
founded.  They  show  what  Bolshevism  carried  out 
in  the  field  of  poetry,  would  lead  to.  One  of  them 
who  signs  himself  H.  D.  writes  thus  in  the  "  Dial  " 
on  "  Helios  "  : 

"Helios  makes  all  things  right  — 
night  brands  and  chokes, 
as  if  destruction  broke 
over  furze  and  stone  and  crop 
of  myrtle-shoot  and  field-wort, 
destroyed  with  flakes  of  iron, 
the  bracken-stone, 
where  tender  roots  were  sown 
blight,  chaff,  and  wash 
of  darkness  to  choke  and  drown. 

"A  curious  god  to  find, 
yet  in  the  end  faithful; 
bitter,  the  Kyprian's  feet  — 
ah,  flecks  of  withered  clay, 
great  hero,  vaunted  lord  — 
ah,  petals,  dust  and  windfall 
on  the  ground  —  queen  awaiting  queen." 

277 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

What  it  all  means  —  who  can  tell  ?  It  is  as  empty 
of  intelligent  meaning  as  a  rubbish-heap.  Yet 
these  men  claim  to  get  their  charter  from  Whitman. 
I  do  not  think  Whitman  would  be  enough  inter 
ested  in  them  to  feel  contempt  toward  them.  Whit 
man  was  a  man  of  tremendous  personality,  and 
every  line  he  wrote  had  a  meaning,  and  his  whole 
work  was  suffused  with  a  philosophy  as  was  his 
body  with  blood. 

These  Reds  belong  to  the  same  class  of  inane  sen 
sationalists  that  the  Cubists  do;  they  would  defy 
in  verse  what  the  Cubists  defy  in  form. 

I  have  just  been  skimming  through  an  illustrated 
book  called  "  Noa  Noa,"  by  a  Frenchman,  which 
describes,  or  pretends  to  describe,  a  visit  to  Tahiti. 
There  is  not  much  fault  to  be  found  with  it  as  a  nar 
rative,  but  the  pictures  of  the  natives  are  atrocious. 
Many  of  the  figures  are  distorted,  and  all  of  them 
have  a  smutty  look,  as  if  they  had  been  rubbed 
with  lampblack  or  coal-dust.  There  is  not  one 
simple,  honest  presentation  of  the  natural  human 
form  in  the  book.  When  the  Parisian  becomes  a 
degenerate,  he  is  the  most  degenerate  of  all  —  a 
refined,  perfumed  degenerate.  A  degenerate  Eng 
lishman  may  be  brutal  and  coarse,  but  he  could 
never  be  guilty  of  the  inane  or  the  outrageous 
things  which  the  Cubists,  the  Imagists,  the  Fu 
turists,  and  the  other  Ists  among  the  French  have 
turned  out.  The  degenerate  Frenchman  is  like 
278 


SUNDOWN   PAPERS 

our  species  of  smilax  which  looks  fresh,  shining, 
and  attractive,  but  when  it  blooms  gives  out  an 
odor  of  dead  rats. 

I  recently  chanced  upon  the  picture  of  a  kneel 
ing  girl,  by  one  of  the  Reds  in  art,  a  charcoal  sketch 
apparently.  It  suggests  the  crude  attempts  of  a 
child.  The  mouth  is  a  black,  smutty  hole  in  the 
face,  the  eyes  are  not  mates,  and  one  of  them  is 
merely  a  black  dot.  In  fact,  the  whole  head 
seems  thrust  up  into  a  cloud  of  charcoal  dust. 
The  partly  nude  body  has  not  a  mark  of  femininity. 
The  body  is  very  long  and  the  legs  very  short,  and 
the  knees,  as  they  protrude  from  under  the  drapery, 
look  like  two  irregular  blocks  of  wood. 

To  falsify  or  belie  nature  seems  to  be  the  sole 
aim  of  these  creatures.  The  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  the  whole  gang  of  them  would  be  to  be 
compelled  to  go  out  and  dig  and  spade  the  earth. 
They  would  then  see  what  things  are  really  like. 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  EVOLUTION 

IT  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  doctrine  of  evo 
lution  itself  has  undergone  as  complete  an  evolu 
tion  as  has  any  animal  species  with  which  it  deals. 
We  find  the  germ  of  it,  so  to  speak,  in  the  early 
Greek  philosophers  and  not  much  more.  Crude, 
half-developed  forms  of  it  begin  to  appear  in  the 
eighteenth  century  of  our  era  and  become  more 
and  more  developed  in  the  nineteenth,  till  they 
279 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

approximate  completion  in  Darwin.  In  Geoffroy 
Saint-Hilaire  in  1795  there  are  glimpses  of  the 
theory,  but  in  Lamarck,  near  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  the  theory  is  so  fully  developed 
that  it  anticipates  Darwin  on  many  points ;  often 
full  of  crudities  and  absurdities,  yet  Lamarck  hits 
the  mark  surprisingly  often.  In  1813  Dr.  W.  C. 
Wells,  an  Englishman,  read  a  paper  before  the 
Royal  Society  in  London  that  contains  a  passage 
that  might  have  come  from  the  pages  of  Darwin. 
In  the  anonymous  and  famous  volume  called 
"  Vestiges  of  Creation,"  published  in  1844,  the 
doctrine  of  the  mutability  of  species  is  forcibly 
put.  Then  in  Herbert  Spencer  in  1852  the  evo 
lution  theory  of  development  receives  a  fresh  im 
petus,  till  it  matures  in  the  minds  of  Darwin  and 
Wallace  in  the  late  fifties.  The  inherent  impulse 
toward  development  is  also  in  Aristotle.  It  crops  out 
again  in  Lamarck,  but  was  repudiated  by  Darwin. 

FOLLOWING  ONE'S  BENT 

I  HAVE  done  what  I  most  wanted  to  do  in  the  world, 
what  I  was  probably  best  fitted  to  do,  not  as  the 
result  of  deliberate  planning  or  calculation,  but 
by  simply  going  with  the  current,  that  is,  follow 
ing  my  natural  bent,  and  refusing  to  run  after 
false  gods.  Riches  and  fame  and  power,  when 
directly  pursued,  are  false  gods.  If  a  man  delib 
erately  says  to  himself,  '*  I  will  win  these  things," 
280 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

he  has  likely  reckoned  without  his  host.  His  host 
is  the  nature  within  and  without  him,  and  that 
may  have  something  to  say  on  the  subject.  But 
if  he  says,  "  I  will  do  the  worthy  work  that  comes 
to  my  hand,  the  work  that  my  character  and  my 
talent  bring  me,  and  I  will  do  it  the  best  I  can," 
he  will  not  reap  a  barren  harvest. 

So  many  persons  are  disappointed  in  life  !  They 
have  had  false  aims.  They  have  wanted  some 
thing  for  nothing.  They  have  listened  to  the  call 
of  ambition  and  have  not  heeded  the  inner  light. 
They  have  tried  short  cuts  to  fame  and  fortune, 
and  have  not  been  willing  to  pay  the  price  in  self- 
denial  that  all  worthy  success  demands.  We  find 
our  position  in  life  according  to  the  specific  gravity 
of  our  moral  and  intellectual  natures. 

NOTES  ON  THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  OLD  AGE  l 

THE  physiology  of  old  age  is  well  understood  — 
general  sluggishness  of  all  the  functions,  stiffness 
of  the  joints,  more  or  less  so-called  rheumatism,  loss 
of  strength,  wasting  tissues,  broken  sleep,  failing 
hearing  and  eyesight,  capricious  appetite,  and  so 
on.  But  the  psychology  of  old  age  is  not  so  easily 
described.  The  old  man  reasons  well,  the  judg 
ment  is  clear,  the  mind  active,  the  conscience  alert, 
the  interest  in  life  unabated.  It  is  the  memory 

1  [These  fragments,  which  Mr.  Burroughs  intended  to  expand 
into  an  article,  were  among  the  very  last  things  he  wrote.  —  C.  B.] 

281 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

that  plays  the  old  man  tricks.  His  mind  is  a 
storehouse  of  facts  and  incidents  and  experiences, 
but  they  do  not  hold  together  as  they  used  to ; 
their  relations  are  broken  and  very  uncertain.  He 
remembers  the  name  of  a  person,  but  perhaps  can 
not  recall  the  face  or  presence;  or  he  remembers 
the  voice  and  presence,  but  without  the  name  or 
face.  He  may  go  back  to  his  school-days  and  try 
to  restore  the  faded  canvas  of  those  distant  days. 
It  is  like  resurrecting  the  dead ;  he  exhumes  them 
from  their  graves  :  There  was  G ;  how  dis 
tinctly  he  recalls  the  name  and  some  incident  in  his 

school  life,  and  that  is  all.     There  was  B ,  a 

name  only.     There  was  R ,  and  the  memory  of 

the  career  he  had  marked  out  for  himself  and  his 
untimely  death  through  a  steamboat  accident ;  but 
of  his  looks,  his  voice  —  not  a  vestige !  It  is  a 
memory  full  of  holes,  like  a  net  with  many  of  the 
meshes  broken.  He  recalls  his  early  teachers,  some 
of  them  stand  out  vividly  —  voice,  look,  manner 
—  all  complete.  Others  are  only  names  associated 
with  certain  incidents  in  school. 

Names  and  places  with  which  one  has  been 
perfectly  familiar  all  his  life  suddenly,  for  a  few 
moments,  mean  nothing.  It  is  as  if  the  belt 
slipped,  and  the  wheel  did  not  go  round.  Then 
the  next  moment,  away  it  goes  again !  Or,  shall 
we  call  it  a  kind  of  mental  anaesthesia,  or  mental 
paralysis?  Thus,  the  other  day  I  was  reading 
282 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

something  about  Georgetown,  South  America. 
I  repeated  the  name  over  to  myself  a  few  times. 
"  Have  I  not  known  such  a  place  some  time  in  my 
life  ?  Where  is  it  ?  Georgetown  ?  Georgetown  ?  " 
The  name  seemed  like  a  dream.  Then  I  thought 
of  Washington,  the  Capital,  and  the  city  above  it, 
but  had  to  ask  a  friend  if  the  name  was  George 
town.  Then  suddenly,  as  if  some  chemical  had 
been  rubbed  on  a  bit  of  invisible  writing,  out  it 
came  !  Of  course  it  was  Georgetown.  How  could 
I  have  been  in  doubt  about  it?  (I  had  lived  in 
Washington  for  ten  years.) 

So  we  say,  old  age  may  reason  well,  but  old  age 
does  not  remember  well.  This  is  a  commonplace. 
It  seems  as  if  memory  were  the  most  uncertain  of 
all  our  faculties. 

Power  of  attention  fails,  which  we  so  often  mis 
take  for  deafness  in  the  old.  It  is  the  mind  that 
is  blunted  and  not  the  ear.  Hence  we  octogena 
rians  so  often  ask  for  your  question  over  again. 
We  do  not  grasp  it  the  first  time.  We  do  not  want 
you  to  speak  louder,  we  only  need  to  focus  upon 
you  a  little  more  completely. 

Of  course  both  sight  and  hearing  are  a  little 
blunted  in  old  age.  But  for  myself  I  see  as  well 
as  ever  I  did,  except  that  I  have  to  use  spectacles 
in  reading;  but  nowadays  the  younger  observers 
hear  the  finer  sounds  in  nature  that  sometimes 
escape  me. 

283 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

Some  men  mellow  with  age,  others  harden,  but 
the  man  who  does  not  in  some  way  ripen  is  in  a 
bad  way.  Youth  makes  up  in  sap  and  push  what 
it  lacks  in  repose. 

To  grow  old  gracefully  is  the  trick. 

To  me  one  of  the  worst  things  about  old  age  is 
that  one  has  outlived  all  his  old  friends.  The  Past 
becomes  a  cemetery. 

"  As  men  grow  old,"  said  Rochefoucauld, 
"  they  grow  more  foolish  and  more  wise  "  -  wise 
in  counsel,  but  foolish  in  conduct.  '  There  is  no 
fool  like  an  old  fool,"  said  Tennyson,  but  it  is 
equally  true  that  there  is  no  fool  like  the  young 
fool.  If  you  want  calm  and  ripe  wisdom,  go  to 
middle  age. 

As  an  octogenarian,  I  have  found  it  interesting 
to  collate  many  wise  sayings  of  many  wise  men  on 
youth  and  age.1 

Cicero  found  that  age  increased  the  pleasure  of 
conversation.  It  is  certainly  true  that  in  age  we 
do  find  our  tongues,  if  we  have  any.  They  are 
unloosed,  and  when  the  young  or  the  middle-aged 
sit  silent,  the  octogenarian  is  a  fountain  of  conver 
sation.  In  age  one  set  of  pleasures  is  gone  and 
another  takes  its  place. 

Emerson  published  his  essay  on  "  Old  Age  " 
while  he  was  yet  in  the  middle  sixties,  and  I  recall 

1  [Here  followed  several  pages  of  quotations  from  the  ancients 
and  modems.  —  C.  B.) 

284 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

that  in  the  "  Emerson-Carlyle  Correspondence  " 
both  men  began  to  complain  of  being  old  before 
they  were  sixty.  Scott  was  old  before  his  time, 
and  Macaulay  too.  Scott  died  at  sixty-one,  Ma- 
caulay  at  fifty-nine,  Tennyson  at  eighty-three, 
Carlyle  at  eighty-six,  Emerson  at  seventy-nine, 
Amiel  at  sixty. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  it  is  characteristic  of 
old  age  to  reverse  its  opinions  and  its  likes  and  dis 
likes.  But  it  does  not  reverse  them;  it  revises 
them.  If  its  years  have  been  well  spent,  it  has 
reached  a  higher  position  from  which  to  overlook 
life.  It  commands  a  wider  view,  and  the  relation 
of  the  parts  to  the  whole  is  more  clearly  seen.  .  .  . 

"  Old  age  superbly  rising  "  — Whitman. 

Age  without  decrepitude,  or  remorse,  or  fear, 
or  hardness  of  heart ! 

FACING  THE  MYSTERY 

I  wifen  there  were  something  to  light  up  the  grave 
for  me,  but  there  is  not.  It  is  the  primal,  unend 
ing  darkness.  The  faith  of  all  the  saints  and  mar 
tyrs  does  not  help  me.  I  must  see  the  light  be 
yond  with  my  own  eyes.  Whitman's  indomitable 
faith  I  admire,  but  cannot  share.  My  torch  will 
not  kindle  at  his  great  flame.  From  our  youth  up 
our  associations  with  the  dead  and  with  the  grave 
are  oppressive.  Our  natural  animal  instincts  get 
the  better  of  us.  Death  seems  the  great  catas- 
285 


THE  LAST  HARVEST 

trophe.  The  silver  cord  is  loosened,  and  the  golden 
bowl  is  broken.  The  physical  aspects  of  death 
are  unlovely  and  repellent.  And  the  spiritual 
aspects  —  only  the  elect  can  see  them.  Our  phys 
ical  senses  are  so  dominant,  the  visible  world  is  so 
overpowering,  that  all  else  becomes  as  dreams  and 
shadows. 

I  know  that  I  am  a  part  of  the  great  cosmic  sys 
tem  of  things,  and  that  all  the  material  and  all 
the  forces  that  make  up  my  being  are  as  indestructi 
ble  as  the  great  Cosmos  itself  —  all  that  is  phys 
ical  must  remain  in  some  form.  But  conscious 
ness,  the  real  Me,  is  not  physical,  but  an  effect  of 
the  physical.  It  is  really  no  more  a  thing  than 
"  a  child's  curlicue  cut  by  a  burnt  stick  in  the 
night,"  and  as  the  one  is  evanescent,  why  not  the 
other  ? 

Nature  is  so  opulent,  so  indifferent  to  that  we 
hold  most  precious,  such  a  spendthrift,  evokes  such 
wonders  from  such  simple  materials !  Why  should 
she  conserve  souls,  when  she  has  the  original  stuff 
of  myriads  of  souls?  She  takes  up,  and  she  lays 
down.  Her  cycles  of  change,  of  life  and  death,  go 
on  forever.  She  does  not  lay  up  stores;  she  is, 
and  has,  all  stores,  whether  she  keep  or  whether 
she  waste.  It  is  all  the  same  to  her.  There  is  no 
outside,  no  beyond,  to  her  processes  and  posses 
sions.  There  is  no  future  for  her,  only  an  ever 
lasting  present.  What  is  the  very  bloom  and 
286 


SUNDOWN  PAPERS 

fragrance  of  humanity  to  the  Infinite?  In  the 
yesterday  of  geologic  time,  humanity  was  not.  In 
the  to-morrow  of  geologic  time,  it  will  not  be.  The 
very  mountains  might  be  made  of  souls,  and  all  the 
stars  of  heaven  kindled  with  souls,  such  is  the 
wealth  of  Nature  in  what  we  deem  so  precious,  and 
so  indifferent  is  she  to  our  standards  of  valuation. 
This  I  know,  too :  that  the  grave  is  not  dark  or 
cold  to  the  dead,  but  only  to  the  living.  The  light 
of  the  eye,  the  warmth  of  the  body,  still  exist  un- 
diminished  in  the  universe,  but  in  other  relations, 
under  other  forms.  Shall  the  flower  complain 
because  it  fades  and  falls  ?  It  has  to  fall  before 
the  fruit  can  appear.  But  what  is  the  fruit  of  the 
flower  of  human  life?  Surely  not  the  grave,  as 
the  loose  thinking  of  some  seem  to  imply.  The 
only  fruit  I  can  see  is  in  fairer  flowers,  or  a  higher 
type  of  mind  and  life  that  follows  in  this  world, 
and  to  which  our  lives  may  contribute.  The  flower 
of  life  has  improved  through  the  ages  —  the 
geologic  ages ;  from  the  flower  of  the  brute,  it  has 
become  the  flower  of  the  man.  You  and  I  perish, 
but  something  goes  out,  or  may  go  out,  from  us 
that  will  help  forward  a  higher  type  of  mankind. 
To  what  end  ?  Who  knows  ?  We  cannot  cross- 
question  the  Infinite.  Something  in  the  universe 
has  eventuated  in  man,  and  something  has  profited 
by  his  ameliorations.  We  must  regard  him  as  a 
legitimate  product,  and  we  must  look  upon  death 
287 


THE   LAST  HARVEST 

as  a  legitimate  part  of  the  great  cycle  —  an  evil 
only  from  our  temporary  and  personal  point  of 
view,  but  a  good  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
whole. 


THE  END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Adaptation,  247,  248. 

Agassiz,  Louis,  163. 

Alchemy,  242,  243. 

Alcott,  Amos  Bronson,  in  Em 
erson's  Journals,  26-29;  on 
Thoreau,  156. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  253. 

Alphabet,  the,  275,  276. 

American  people,  the,  252,  253. 

Amiel,  Henri  Frederic,  4-6; 
quoted,  223. 

Arnim,  Elisabeth  von,  34,  35. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  213,  250, 
260;  in  Emerson's  Journals, 
25;  on  Emerson,  87,  89,  90; 
his  poetry,  209;  on  poetry, 
212. 

Art,  recent  "isms "in,  278,  279. 

Audacity,  261. 

Aurora  borealis,  140,  141. 

Batavia  Kill,  244. 

Beauty,  98-101,  246,  247,  251, 
252. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  232. 

Bent,  following  one's,  280,  281. 

Benton,  Myron,  26. 

Bergson,  Henri,  his  "Creative 
Evolution,"  revised  estimate 
of,  264-66;  and  telepathy, 
267,  268. 

Bettina,  Goethe's,  34,  35. 

Bittern,  pumping,  135. 

Boldness,  261. 

Bouton,  Deborah,  244. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  his 
poetry,  203,  204,  222. 

Burns,  Robert,  213. 

Burroughs,  John,  chronic  home 
sickness,  227,  228. 


Cactus,  248. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  34,  35,  43, 
47,  97;  contrasted  with  Em 
erson,  30;  correspondence 
with  Emerson,  39,  40,  61,  80, 
81;  on  Webster,  61;  as  a 
painter,  76,  77;  Emerson's 
love  and  admiration  for,  79- 
82;  his  style,  82. 

Channing,  William  Ellery,  2d, 
138-40;  in  Emerson's  Jour 
nals,  9,  29,  30,  142;  in  Tho- 
reau's  Journal,  149. 

City,  the,  226,  227. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  quot 
ed,  276. 

Contrasts,  218-29. 

Country,  life  in  the,  226-28. 

Critic,  the  professional,  259, 
260. 

Criticism,  260. 

D.,  H.,  quoted,  277. 

Dana,  Richard  Henry,  his 
"Two  Years  before  the 
Mast,"  256-58. 

Dargan,  Olive  Tilford,  quoted, 
201,  202. 

Darwin,  Charles,  criticism  of 
his  selection  theories,  172- 
89,  193-98;  his  "Voyage  of 
the  Beagle,"  189-93;  his 
significance,  198-200. 

Days,  memorable,  231. 

Death,  thoughts  on,  285-88. 

De  Vries,  Hugo,  his  mutation 
theory,  196,  197. 

Discovery,  223-25. 

Early  and  late,  230,  231. 


INDEX 


Eating,  77-79. 

Edison,  Thomas  A.,  243,  269. 

Electricity,  231. 

Emerson,  Charles,  5. 

Emerson,  Dr.  Edward  W.,  on 
Thoreau,  155,  156. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  136, 
214,  227,  239;  Journals  of, 
discussed,  1-85;  a  new  esti 
mate  of,  1-4;  and  social  in 
tercourse,  6-8;  self-reliance, 
8,  31,  32;  poet  and  prophet 
of  the  moral  ideal,  9-11;  his 
lectures,  11,  12,  64,  65,  162; 
his  supreme  test  of  men,  12, 
13,  17;  his  "Days,"  14;  his 
"Humble-Bee,"  14;  "Each 
and  All,"  15;  "Two  Rivers," 
15,  16;  on  Poe,  16;  on  Whit 
man's  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
17;  as  a  reader  and  a  writer, 
17,  18;  his  main  interests,  18; 
on  Jesus  as  a  Representative 
Man,  20;  on  Thoreau,  22,  23, 
141, 156, 157;  and  John  Muir, 
23,  24;  alertness,  24;  on 
Matthew  Arnold,  25;  on 
Lowell,  25,  26;  on  Alcott, 
26-29;  on  Father  Taylor, 
28,  29;  occupied  with  the 
future,  30;  his  "Song  of  Na 
ture,"  30,  31;  near  and  far, 
past  and  present,  31,  32;  and 
human  sympathy,  32,  33,  38, 
39;  "Representative  Men," 
33;  attitude  towards  Whit 
man,  34,  253;  literary  es 
timates,  34,  35;  on  Wrords- 
worth,  36;  correspondence 
with  Carlyle,  39,  40;  love  of 
nature,  41-43 ;  his  book  "  Na 
ture,"  41,  43,  88,  89,  230; 
his  "May-Day,"  43;  feel 
ing  for  profanity  and  racy 
speech,  44-48;  humor,  45- 
48;  thoughts  about  God,  48- 
52;  attitude  towards  science, 


52-60;  on  Webster,  60-63; 
relijrion,  63,  64 ;  self-criticism, 
65-67 ;"  Terminus,"  67 ;  cath 
olicity,  67-70;  on  the  Bible, 
70;  his  selection  of  words,  70, 
71;  ideas  but  no  doctrines, 
71,  72;  his  limitations,  73- 
75;  and  Hawthorne,  73-75; 
a  painter  of  ideas,  76,  77;  on 
eating  and  the  artist,  77;  love 
and  admiration  for  Carlyle, 
79-82;  hungered  for  the 
quintessence  of  things,  84; 
the  last  result  of  Puritanism, 
85;  an  estimate  of,  86-92; 
attitude  towards  poverty, 
89;  weak  in  logic,  91 ;  passion 
for  analogy,  92;  false  notes 
in  rhetoric,  92-94;  speaking 
with  authority,  95;  at  the 
Holmes  breakfast,  95,  96; 
his  face,  96;  criticisms  of,  96- 
101;  on  beauty,  98,  99;  last 
words  on,  102;  compared 
with  Thoreau,  126;  inter 
course  with  Thoreau,  156- 
58;  incident  related  by  Tho 
reau,  158;  on  Walter  Scott, 
216;  on  oratory,  232;  a  New 
England  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
261;  old  age,  284,  285. 

Esopus,  N.Y.,  244. 

Ethical  standards,  233. 

Everett,  Edward,  223. 

Evolution,  and  the  Darwinian 
theory,  174-89,  193-98; 
chance  in,  175-81;  the  mu 
tation  theory,  196,  197; 
Bergson  reread,  264-66;  evo 
lution  of  the  doctrine,  279, 
280. 

Farm,  the  home,  227,  228. 

Fist,  the,  220,  221. 

Flagg,  Wilson,  Thoreau  on,  165, 

166. 
Flattery,  221,  222. 


INDEX 


Flowers,  fadeless,  231. 
Fort  Myers,  243. 
Fox,  135,  136. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  7. 

Genius,  and  talent,  222,  223. 

Geoffrey  Saint-Hilaire,  280. 

Germans,  the,  3,  4. 

Gilchrist,  Anue,  on  Emerson, 
88. 

God,  Emerson's  idea  of,  48-52; 
Nature's,  233,  234. 

Goethe,  98. 

Gray,  Eri,  244. 

Gray,  Thomas,  his  "Elegy 
written  in  a  Country  Church 
yard,"  216. 

Grossmont,  Gal.,  240. 

H.  D.,  quoted,  277. 
Hawaiian  Islands,  236. 
Hawthorne,     Nathaniel,     and 

Emerson,  73-75. 
Hearn,  Lafcadio,  quoted,  202. 
Heat,  246. 
Hermits,  244. 
Higginson,  Thomas  Went  worth, 

253. 
History,  the  grand  movements 

of,  249. 

Homesickness,  227-29. 
Howells,   William   Dean,   227; 

an  estimate,  262,  263. 

Insects,  hum  of,  244,  245. 
Invention,  223-26. 

James,   Henry,    his   hypersen- 

sitiveness,  255,  256. 
James,  William,  quoted,  234. 
Journals,  4,  5. 
Juvenal,  quoted,  242. 

Keator,  Ike,  244. 

Kepler,  Johann,  quoted,  254. 

Kidd,    Benjamin,    his    "Social 


Evolution,"  270. 


Kingsley,  Charles,  a  parable  of, 

189;  and  Newman,  261. 
Knowledge,  the  Tree  of,  248. 

Lamarck,  280. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  Em 
erson  and,  34,  35,  43". 

Life,  the  result  of  a  system  of 
checks  and  counter-checks, 
236,  237. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  220,  221, 
223. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth, 
in  Emerson's  Journals,  25. 

Loveman,  Robert,  his  poetry, 
204,  205;  quoted,  204,  205. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  in  Em 
erson's  Journals,  25;  criti 
cism  of  Thoreau,  104-11; 
love  of  books  and  of  nature, 
110,  111;  possessed  talent 
but  not  genius,  223;  and 
Whitman,  253. 

McCarthy,   John   Russell,   his 

poems,  204,  208,  223;  quoted, 

214,  215,  223. 
Masefield,  John,  208. 
Maui,  236. 
Meteoric  men,  231,  232,  270- 

72. 
Milton,  John,  "  Paradise  Lost," 

260;  quoted,  260. 
Montaigne,  8. 
Moody,   William  Vaughn,   his 

poetry,  204-07;  quoted,  207. 
Morgan,    Thomas    Hunt,    on 

Darwin,  200. 
Movements,    in   inert   matter, 

245. 

Muir,  John,  23. 
Mutation  theory,  196,  197. 

Natural  history,  and  ethical 
and  poetic  values,  54-56. 

Natural  selection,  criticism  of 
the  theory,  178-89,  193-98. 


293 


INDEX 


Newspapers,  272-74. 
"Noa  Noa,"  278. 

Old    age,    the   psychology   of, 

281-85. 

Oratory,  232,  233. 
Osborn,    Henry    Fairfield,    on 

chance  in  evolution,  175. 

Palm  and  fist,  220,  221. 

Pascal,  Blaise,  quoted,  233. 

Permanent,  and  transient,  218, 
219. 

Phillips,  Stephen,  270. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  222,  232; 
quoted,  221. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  203;  Emer 
son  on,  16,  74;  his  poetry, 
209-11. 

Poets,  do  not  efface  one  an 
other,  250,  251. 

Poetry,  only  the  best  signifi 
cant,  201;  a  discussion  of, 
201-17;  B.'s  own,  203;  and 
philosophy,  203,  204,  207- 
09,  260;  not  sweetened  prose 
put  up  in  verse  form,  207; 
red  revolution  in,  276-78. 

Pope,  Alexander,  201. 

Positive  and  negative,  219,  220. 

Power,  mankind  drunk  with, 
248,  249. 

Praise,  and  flattery,  221,  222. 

Prayer,  233. 

Quotations,  a  book  of,  261,  262. 

Rain,  creative  function  of,  236. 
Rainbow,  the,  137,  138. 
Rashness,  261. 
Reds  of  literature  and  art,  the, 

276-79. 

Reed,  Sampson,  34,  35. 
Rhyme,  267. 

Ripley,  Rev.  Dr.  Ezra,  45,  46. 
Robertson,  Frederick  William, 

232. 


Rochefoucauld,  quoted,  284. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  220,  259, 

272. 
Rousseau,  Jean-Jacques,  179. 

Sandburg,    Carl,   quoted,   276, 

277. 
Santayana,     George,     quoted, 

260. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  his  poems, 

216. 

Sea,  the,  218. 
Sect,  a  queer,  243. 
Sexes,  the,  238-40. 
Shakespeare,  William,  quoted, 

242. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  74. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  quoted,  267. 
Smith,  Alexander,  270. 
Snake,  mechanism  for  crushing 

eggs,  196. 
Snow,  252. 

Spanish-American  WTar,  206. 
Spencer,  Herbert,  280. 
Spiritualism,  267-69. 
Stanton,  Edwin  M.,  221. 
Stedman,    Edmund    Clarence, 

253. 

Style,  81-84,  256. 
Sublime,  the,  251. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  93,  267;  quot 
ed,  223. 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles, 

209,  254, 

Talent,  and  genius,  222,  223. 

Taylor,  Edward  T.,  28,  29,  85. 

Telepathy,  267-69. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  41,  209,  250; 
and  Whitman,  254. 

Theories,  absurd,  242,  243. 

Thomas  a  Kempis,  261;  quot 
ed,  261. 

Thomson,  J.  Arthur,  96. 

Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  Journal  of, 
4,  5;  in  Emerson's  Journals, 
20,  29;  compared  with  Em- 


•294 


INDEX 


ergon,  20-22;  his  "Walden," 
21;  "The  Maine  Woods," 
21,  22;  "Cape  Cod,"  22; 
Emerson  on,  22,  23;  false 
-  notes  in  rhetoric,  93 ;  does  not 
grow  stale,  103;  ancestry, 
104;  Lowell's  criticism  of, 
104-11;  industry,  106;  phi 
losophy  and  life,  108;  ac 
complishment,  109,  110;  his 
"Walden,"  110, 143, 147;  hu 
mor,  110;  approving  of  Whit 
man,  111,  112;  as  a  nature 
writer,  112-20;  his  Journal 
quoted  and  criticized,  113, 
128,  134-37,  139-61,  163-05, 
169,  170;  "Walden"  quoted, 
114-19,  137,  143,  146,  147; 
travels,  119,  120;  unique 
ness,  120,  121;  and  science, 
122;  individualism,  122,  123; 
an  extremist,  123,  124;  and 
civilization,  124,  125;  com 
pared  with  Emerson,  126; 
as  a  walker,  127-32;  his 
"Walking,"  127-29;  his  nat 
ural-history  lore,  133-41; 
faults  as  a  writer,  141-46; 
love  of  writing,  150;  literary 
activity,  153- 55;  personality, 
155-59;  and  the  Civil  War, 
159,  160;  and  John  Brown, 
160;  inconsistencies,  160-62, 
166;  his  "Life  without  Prin 
ciple,"  162;  idealism,  162- 
68;  manual  labor,  163-65; 
moralizing  on  Bill  Wheeler, 
167,  168;  and  human  emo 
tions,  168;  and  young  wo 
men,  168,  169;  as  a  philoso 
pher,  169,  170;  merits  as  a 
man  and  a  writer,  170,  171; 
quoted,  242. 

Time,  241,  242. 

Timeliness,  230,  231. 

Torrey,  Bradford,  134,  163. 

Town  and  country,  226-28. 


Transient,  and  permanent,  218, 

219. 
Truth,  234,  235,  247. 

Verse,  free,  276-78. 

Very,     Jones,     in     Emerson's 

Journals,    9,    25;   Emerson's 

high  opinion  of,  35. 
"Vestiges  of  Creation,"  280. 
Views,     from     mountain-tops, 

240,  241. 
Virgil,  quoted,  242. 

Walking,  127-32. 

Warbler,  night,  Thoreau's,  136. 

Wealth,  237,  238. 

Webster,  Daniel,  Emerson  on, 
60-63;  Carlyleon,  61. 

Weismann,  August,  178. 

Wells,  Dr.  W.  C.,  280. 

Whitman,  Walt,  94,  222,  227, 
253,  278;  Emerson  on 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  17;  in 
Emerson's  Journals,  25;  Em 
erson's  attitude  towards,  34; 
receives  "May-Day"  from 
Emerson,  43;  quoted,  100, 
179,  202,  212,  250,  251,  254, 
285;  Thoreau's  approval  of, 
111,  112;  his  philosophy, 
208,  209;  as  a  criterion,  253, 
254 ;  his  faith  in  himself,  254. 

Whitticr,  John  G.,  92,  93;  and 
Whitman,  253. 

Wilkinson,  Garth,  35. 

Wilson,  Woodrow,  221, 232, 271. 

Winter,  William,  253. 

Women,  238-40. 

Words,  and  style,  83,  84. 

Wordsworth,  William,  216,  250, 
251;  Emerson's  estimate  of, 
36;  quoted,  100,  218;  a  poet- 
walker,  130,  131;  on  poetry 
and  philosophy,  203;  great 
only  at  rare  intervals,  212, 
213. 

Wren,  cactus,  248. 


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